


What Binds Us (Part2- The Winter)

by dandelionpower



Series: Seasons in the North Hills [2]
Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Sexual Assault, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men in Kilts, Minor Character Death, Pagan Rites, They are Both Humans, War, imaginary universe inspired by Scottish Highlands, severe war injuries, so don't expect rainbows and unicorns, war is not a walk in the park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 157,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionpower/pseuds/dandelionpower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their marriage was nothing but a political arrangement. Nevertheless, by dint of tenderness and patience, John managed to seduce his recalcitrant consort. Anders grew fond of that warrior husband he first loathed, but winter is there, bringing with its cold wind the shadows of war and dark times to come. Will fate be cruel enough to cut down a tree that didn't have the time to fully bloom?  </p><p>Illustrated by Dragon4488, Betaed/Translated by Katyushha</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Portrait

**Author's Note:**

> My team and I are excited to be back for this second "season" of WBU !!!
> 
> Again, I want to thank Katyushha for her betaing and her translation and DRAGON4488 for the marvellous, colorful art. They work hard on that project with me and I'm truly touched and grateful that I met those people. 
> 
> We hope you guys will appreciate as much as you liked the first part.

Anders didn't look like Anders.

At least that's what Anders thought when he saw himself on the portrait.

The painter had taken a lot of liberties. Anders' hair was subtly longer and definitely darker. The blond color was gone, replaced by a kind of chestnut brown, though it was hard to pinpoint the exact shade. The eyebrows were darker as well, giving him an austere look.

The eyes were not Anders' either. The painter hadn't been bold enough to make them brown, but they were now of a kind of iron grey that had nothing to do with Anders' pale blue eyes. His long, slender nose had been enlarged. The Aklànder's manly chin and his full lips were the sole things the painter had found nice enough not to modify.

Anders stared at the portrait some more. He should probably feel offended, but he was rather fascinated to see himself as what people thought he should look like. It was interesting to see a version of himself who would never get any funny looks.  

Of course, on the portrait, John resembled John: because Anders' regal husband already was the epitome of what North-Hillers considered aesthetically pleasing in a man: the dark, curly hair, the long lashes and the triangular nose.

"What did you do to my husband's face!?" Lord Mitchell asked the painter: undeniably displeased with the result.    

They had been posing for hours now: John seated on his throne and Anders standing up by his side with his hand placed on his spouse's shoulder. The consort didn't really understand why his husband was in such a hurry to have their portrait made. Anders had tried to question that choice, but the lord had argued that he wanted a miniature portrait of Anders and that the painter had assured him it would be easier done if he had already painted a larger version. To kill two birds with one stone, the Great Lord had commissioned the painted to make their official, large portrait first.

It still didn't answer Anders' interrogation. He couldn't see how John getting a miniature portrait of him was such an urgent business.

John was too busy with duties at the castle to pose during the day and hence, they had no choice but to do it at night. Anders had complied with those horribly long sessions in the council hall under the light of hundreds of candles, standing still for hours until his bladder and his legs were in agony. He discovered that love could make a man do very stupid things.

John pointed at the canvas where most of the painting was still a sketch, except their two figures, painted from face to chest. As the painter seemed to ignore his lord's question on purpose, John insisted, hints of anger in his voice that made Anders wince. "Can you explain that to me? Trust me, I know what my spouse looks like: I wake up by his side every morning. The man in that painting is not my consort."

The painter cleared his throat, uneasy. "Well, you know, Your Highness, it's a common thing to rearrange small details to embellish one's portrait."

"These are no small details," John groaned. "And when you say 'embellish': what are you insinuating exactly? Because I see none of those _embellishments_ you seem to be so fond of on that portrait of me. If it is a _common_ practice: why didn't you apply it to my face as well?"

Anders prayed in silence that the artist would be wise enough not to confront his lord, because the rage he was feeling boiling inside his lover's veins would take the smallest spark to flare.

"It's not under my control, my lord, there are portraits that need more enhancement than others. The changes are meant to make your spouse match with you. I'm sure you'll be pleased I painted your consort the way I did in the future,” the man explained, like Anders wasn’t in the room. “Then again, I guess you wouldn't want your descendants to wonder if Sir Anders really was part of clan Mitchell."

Anybody who knew John James Douglas Mitchell even just a little was aware that he had two types of frown: one that meant: "I'm concentrated on something or I'm listening to you", and one that meant "I'm going to rip your face off and feast on your still beating heart." Anders actually felt the face-ripping frown coming even before he turned his head to look at his husband's face; just by the way John's shoulder stiffened under his hand.

"John," Anders said in a low voice meant to be a soothing one, but that came out rather alarmed. He squeezed his spouse's shoulder in a vain attempt to contain the cataclysm that was about to go down on the poor, unsuspecting painter.

It was too late and the young man had already stood up and taken one of his long daggers out of its sheath.

 _He's going to kill him_ , Anders panicked as John rushed across the room.

Fortunately the dagger didn't pierce the painter's chest but the canvas as John ripped it from one corner to the other before the artist's horrified eyes. John grabbed the middle-aged man by the collar and pulled him so close their noses were nearly touching. "You are fired," the lord spat, his eyes wide and red with fury. John shoved him away and the painter tumbled to the hard floor. The young brunet slammed the double paneled doors open and stormed out of the room without a look back.

Left alone with the shaken artist, the consort rubbed his face with a sigh. He could still hear his husband's angry footsteps echoing away in the Great Hall.  

The painter was pale as he stood up and dusted his clothes. He had probably pissed himself in his kilt. Anders threw him a compassionless gaze before leaving the council hall, in search of his hurricane of a husband.  Anders knew he had little choice but run after him and try to pacify the brash beast.

"John… JOHN!" the blond hailed when he caught a glimpse of his spouse on the other side of the Great Hall. The younger man ignored him until Anders ran after him and grasped the tartan fabric across his shoulder to make him stop. The consort repeated his name again and Mitchell looked at him. His breath was still heavy and his jaw tense with rage. Unlike many, Anders had no fear in the face of the legendary temper of the Mitchells: at least not anymore.

"Damned Gods, husband! Calm down now!" he ordered.

The lost, confused and hurt look he saw on the lord's face told Anders that he had not taken the best approach. He tried another tactic. He seized John's belt and drew him closer. As he put an arm around the lord's waist, he placed his other hand on the dark stubble. "That's fine. I know you were trying to defend my honor again, but don't you think you overreacted a bit there?" he asked.

Anders was amazed at how the warrior could be a dangerous bear one second, and then become the toy version of it as soon as he took him in his arms. He felt him relax almost instantly. "That's it, just breathe," Anders whispered. He raised himself on tiptoes and put a light kiss on the trembling lips. He pulled away to gauge how steady John was. Not satisfied, he did the same thing again: kissing his husband with barely a brushing of lips and whispering soothing words. He did it as many times as it took to get the brunet's breathing to get back to an even and controlled state.

"I can't let people treat you like that," John hissed, holding Anders close," you are a Mitchell in every right and I want our descendants to see you just as you are."

"I know that," Anders reassured him, his hands searching for warmth under John's unbuttoned coat.

"I probably look crazy in your eyes," the brunet added, "but if I let people act this way toward you, I'm afraid it would degenerate and the spirits know what they could attempt against you."

"If it can please your male ego; I don't feel threatened when you're around," the blond man winked, but what was meant as a joke to ease John's stress made him pull a sour face instead.

"You shouldn't take it to heart so much," the aklànder went on, moving his hand to place it the curve of his husband's waist. "You can't prevent people from being prejudiced. Just like I can't help looking the way I do.  You hold me in high regard and I don't need anybody else's esteem."

"You're too good, Anders," John sighed, resting his chin on top of the smaller man's head.

Anders chuckled. "I never thought anybody would say such thing about me."

The blond peeked above at his husband's face to realize he was still in a dark mood: his eyebrows perilously low on his handsome face. "We should take our minds off things," Anders suggested. "Why don't we go to town and join the party? We are probably the only ones in the whole country not celebrating the coming of winter right now."  

"That's true!" Mitchell remembered, offering his spouse his first real smile of the day. "Who would remind me of things like fun and parties if I didn't have you?"

"Fun is my best feature," was the playful reply as Anders broke their embrace and tugged on the warrior's hand to lead him to their room where they could get rid of their fancy clothes and put on something more practical and discreet to go to town.

***

 

As a reflex; John went the other side of the folding screen to change. Anders pondered that they should now get rid of that piece of furniture. They didn't have any use for it now that they had seen each other naked many times. And to be totally honest, admiring his husband's shapely body was an activity Anders had grown fond of.

The blond man adjusted his plain grey kilt and hid his blond curls under a tam hat. Being able to go out incognito was something else Anders got to love. When he was still in Aklànd, it was the contrary. He wanted everybody to know he was an heir of clan Johnson. He liked to brag about his title and it was the only way he could get people's respect. Despite his foreign looks, some girls liked the idea of sharing a night with an heir. Now that he was married and had become the second most powerful man of the country, he had discovered the advantages of anonymity. Not all people were hostile to him: but since, every time John and he were going somewhere public, they attracted a crowd around them: wanting to speak to them, touch their hands and ask for their blessing or give theirs to them. More than that, Anders was fed up with good-intentioned people constantly asking when their rulers would get their first baby. Every time, John would give him a questioning side-glance, expecting him to give an answer, and the only thing Anders wanted was to disappear under the ground. The words "baby", "heir" or "heiress" sent shivers of horror down his spine. Not that he hated babies; he had had little brothers, so this was no unknown territory for him. It was the idea of fatherhood itself that made him scared. He was not even sure he was a good husband: taking care of a son or a daughter was a step he didn't know if he would ever be ready to make. So, being able to go out with John without having people implanting frightening ideas in his head was much appreciated.

He had discovered he enjoyed being nobody when they had gone to Eelry during what his husband insisted on calling their "honeymoon". The Great Lord's advisors insisted on John taking the usual dispositions for a formal travel, which meant they would have been accompanied on the road by six soldiers from the castle's guard and two others from the city's guard, plus a banner holder, a drum player and a bagpiper. Lord Mitchell had refused, arguing that what he wanted was precisely not to attract attention, which would already be difficult with the presence of the two war horses. As a compromise, they had taken two guards as an escort and the men weren't wearing their uniforms.

They had taken the best room of the HighPine Inn in Eelry under false names, pretending to be a couple of rich cloth merchants from Bailtean.

The weather during their stay had been awful: cold rain for two days. The great spouses barely noticed it: too busy making good use of their bed. They had eaten in bed, John had taught his husband a few card games, but mostly, they got better acquainted with each other's bodies with mouth and hands.

They had left their room only once; spending a few hours under the roof of the garden's belvedere. Lying on a bench, his head resting in Mitchell's lap, Anders had read three chapters of a book to his husband as the rain on the belvedere's roof was accompanying his voice with a soft drumming sound.

It was also raining when they traveled back to Brastàl, both riding on Ornàn's back, sharing their warmth under the fabric of John' large cloak. Unlike during the second trial, this time Anders didn't feel diminished in his manliness to have the brunet enveloping him in his arms and clothes. Why stay alone when he could have some human warmth?  

 

Anders stood up from the edge of the bed when he saw John stepping from behind the folding screen, his fingers struggling with the clip of his cloak. The blond man walked to him to help him clip it. With his black tam hat, his dark-haired husband looked like a boy: but the look in his eyes was the one of an older man.

"Ready?" Anders asked.

"Yes."

John's smile didn't reach his eyes. Being preoccupied seemed to be John Mitchell's permanent state, but when he looked like that: like a maelstrom barely hidden under the glassy sea, he reminded Anders of an old friend...

 

 

***

_11 years earlier – Aklànd Castle_

_Anders ran the tip of his forefinger across the cool surface of the tank. The red fish followed the digit, swimming up and down._

_The heir pondered that fish were not the unfeeling creatures people thought they were.  Maybe the rumors were true, the young man thought, and he really was the son of a sea monster after all. It would explain his love for the inhabitants of the water kingdom and his feeling of loneliness when he was surrounded by humans._

_His step-mother thought it was useless to keep fish. In her opinion, Anders was too old to entertain such hobby.  She had threatened him to empty his tank in the garden many times if he didn't do what she wanted. Anders hated himself for being so weak, but it was a threat that worked, and he did everything she wanted not to see his fish disappear.  Besides, he was not the only one to appreciate the tank. Axl liked it as well, and Anders had taught his brother not to knock on it and scare the fish, but just drag his finger gently across the glass._

_It was the first day of Rëlm: the summer fest, and everybody was in the Great Hall. Mikkel was waiting for him and expecting him to attend the chieftains' arrival. But the first heir of Clan Johnson had no taste for power displays such as those, so he was hiding in his room the other side of the castle. Well, hiding was not the best word to describe it. His family probably knew where he was. The young man was just avoiding his duties until he had no choice but to  fulfill them._

_Even in the stone walls of the castle, it was excruciatingly hot and humid and he had left his bedroom door open, trying to catch a non-existent breeze. That explained why he did not hear the intrusion. He nearly died of a heart attack when, distorted through the glass of the tank, he saw a face appear on the other side: a face that could already be frightening even without it._

_"Hi there," said the gravely but friendly voice._

_"Death spirit!!" Anders cursed, trying not to fall off his chair._

_"I'm sorry I startled you." the tall man apologized._

_Anders hastened to stand up and bow. "How are you, my liege?" he stuttered. "Mike… I mean… my lord said that you'd only arrive tomorrow."_

_"Aye, but the wind and the current have been more favorable than I expected," the warrior explained, taking a seat in front the tank to observe the fish. Anders took it as an invitation to sit down again. "If you thought I would be there tomorrow," the older man continued, "it explains why you didn't come to greet me."_

_"I beg your pardon, your highness," Anders apologized again._

_"There is nothing to forgive… and how many times did I tell you to call me James, huh?"_

_"I… I can't…" the young heir protested._

_"Hm,  then you can call me 'Your Highness' in front of Lord Mikkel and Lady Elizabet and whatever you want when we are alone, would that be fine with you?" Lord Mitchell suggested._

_"Yes… my lord."_

_The Great Lord burst into a roaring laughter that echoed between the walls of the heir's bedroom. Anders wondered what was funny in what he had just said, but he didn't make any comment._

_The warrior brushed off  a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye and reported his attention on the fish tank. "You didn't have this one when I came to visit last winter," he remarked, pointing at the red fish with long fins._

_"I spent a little fortune on that one. A merchant from Pine Port sold it to me. It's really one of a kind," Anders said with pride._

_"Just like its owner," James pointed out with a smile._

_Anders appreciated the Great Lord's company and with the years, he had learnt to see past his ugly looks. The warrior was an impressive man who didn't even have to talk to impose respect and he really had a heart of gold. Though, he had that one big flaw; he was the father of Anders' archenemy: his future husband. For now, John Mitchell was still a fourteen years old boy fighting his way through pimples and puberty, but that didn't prevent people from telling Anders how agile, strong, well-spoken and well-mannered Sir John already was: amazing for a boy that age. These were things Anders really didn't give a damn about, and he had developed a remarkable skill that consisted in becoming suddenly deaf every time someone started singing his betrothed's praises._

_"My John loves animals a lot, just like you," James said, like he had read his future son-in-law's mind. "He is dreaming of having a war horse of his own, but it'll have to wait a few years."_

_At least, it was no praise: just facts. And still, Anders chose not to react._

 

_ _

 

_James watched the fish swim in their tank for a while, until he spoke up again, his expressive eyebrows frowning. "Lord Mikkel told me you weren't too happy about the marriage match your father and I have made.."_

_Anders froze. Why on earth did Mike say such a thing to Lord Mitchell? Surely he had lost his mind. Anders' head was to finish on a pike…. metaphorically if not physically._

_"That's fine," James said with a dismissive gesture when he saw the fear in the young man's eyes. "I didn't want to get married either when I was your age."_

_"You're not…. angry?" the heir asked slowly._

_"Why would I be? I trust the spirits, Anders. I know that when you are going to be with my son, everything will set at its right place," he prognosticated. "You may see each other as monsters for now, you will change your mind when you meet."_

_"What makes you think I will change my mind?" Anders couldn't help but snort._

_"Because John won't leave you any other choice, my poor lad."_

_***_

He had tried. The spirits know Anders tried to resist his fiancé, and then resist his husband, but James was right all along. John had indeed not given him any other choice but to get attached to him.

 

Throughout his young adult life, the aklànder had fought off any desire toward male sex: knowing that he would be forced one day to share the bed of a man he already detested. He had strived to push away any fantasy that involved strong, muscular arms around him. He hadn't allowed himself to feel any attraction for manly features, even if he had succumbed to temptation of touching and kissing other men one time or two: abuse of alcohol making him forget his resolution.

 

Anders had thought that decades of hatred would make him immune to John's charms, but he was wrong. As soon as he had laid his eyes on that undeniably attractive and intelligent young man in the courtyard of Brastàl castle, something inside him had broken. It had made him angry at first. In Anders' eyes: John was everything he would never be: a real North-hiller beauty, respectable and respected, successful, powerful, tall, strong... He could have hated him for that. He had tried to convince himself he hated him for that. But, in truth, he had been inescapably drawn to him. The blond man had had to give up at some point. And somehow, failing to resist John was probably the best thing he had ever done. The battle was lost in advance and the surrender was quite enjoyable.  

It was true liberation to finally unleash those urges. It felt beyond good to act with his guts instead of acting out of pride. Anyway, it would be a crime to deprive himself of what his rightful husband had to offer. Now he knew it was too late: he couldn't get enough of that gorgeous body willingly given to him.  

 

That's what Anders was thinking about as he let his lord drag him by the hand through the crowd of the winter fete.

A huge bonfire was built in the middle of Brastàl's marketplace, its flame growing like yellow leaves of light in the night sky. From lines crossing the place in every directions were hanging pieces of white, vaporous fabric: one for each day of winter. Anders pushed one aside as he tried his best to follow his husband who was apparently hasty to go to the area where they served mulled wine.   

As John was fetching cups of wine for them both, Anders stood back from the crowd, observing the revelers dance and drink.

He opened his mouth and blew softly, his breath condensing into white vapor in the cold air. For some reason, it made him think of his brother. The first week of winter was also Ty's birthweek. When they had come back from Eelry, John and him had packed and shipped to Aklànd a wrought basin and a jug inlaid with blue and green agate stones. It was the perfect gift for a future husband and Ty would be able to bring it to Keirmoor to use it in his conjugal bedroom.

Anders smiled when the young lord made his way back to him through the crowd to give him his cup.

"Happy winter," the blond man told his husband, lifting his cup for a toast. "May this new season fill your every wish: the known and the unspoken ones," he added.   

John hesitated, like some remorse was holding him back, but soon, a smile warmed his features. "Merry winter, my darling," he said, making his cup clink against Anders'.     

Then, the blond man put his forearm around John's carefully, not to spill the wine, and they took a sip from their cups with their arms entwined, making sure not to break eye contact, because otherwise it would mean bad luck. And if somebody needed good luck it was surely the ruler of the country.   

The kiss they shared after tasted like raisin and spices.

Nobody seemed to have recognized them yet. They were just a couple like the others: enjoying the fest and some kissing.

Suddenly, the music of the uilleann pipes and flute stopped.  Everybody fell in a collective silence: looking at the fire at the center of the marketplace. John moved aside to stand behind his spouse and face the bonfire as he put an arm across the blond's chest, keeping him close against his front.

The sound of the drum started, steady and low: like a heartbeat. The first priestesses appeared, wearing diaphanous white dresses that left very little to the imagination.

They were still more clothed than what Anders was used to. When the priestesses came from Mistbank temple to celebrate the season-coming in Aklànd, they usually performed their sacred dance completely naked, no matter if it was the summer or the winter.

The young women's dance got the audience instantly captivated, and when their clear, pure voices ascended to the night sky, everybody was bewitched. Even Anders who was not especially into religious ceremonies couldn't help a shiver, feeling that the spirits were really there, around him. He leant further into his husband's embrace and John tightened his arm around him.

Accompanied by the sound of the priestesses’ hands clapping and the jingle of the bells they were wearing around their wrists and ankles, the Gaelic chant was speaking of couples sharing love and pleasure to fight the long, cold winter nights together and the children who would be born in the fall from those unions. Fortunately, Anders couldn't conceive children with his husband, but he was glad to have someone to fight the cold with him for his first winter in the hills. The weather was freezing here compared to the one of Aklànd, where the ocean currents made the climate temperate. When they were younger, Mikkel liked to scare his little brother by telling him that when he would live in Brastàl, his fingers and toes would surely turn black and fall down from the cold. That prospect had terrified Anders, until, when he was about ten years old, he had dared ask the question to Lord James who had assured him that his toes and fingers were safe, showing them his own as a proof.  

As the dance went on, one of the priestesses stepped in their direction, and as she spinned around gracefully, Anders allowed his eyes to linger on her curves. The dances and the songs were meant to be tributes to the spirits, but they were not innocent. If these priestesses had chosen to leave the safety of their temple in Somerled to come here tonight, it was because they knew there were several men here hoping to get their favors. The young women of the temple who wished to get pregnant would choose men and spend the night with them during the winter festivities. During every seasonal fest in Aklànd, Anders had tried his luck without success. Spending a night with one (maybe two) of them always was his ultimate fantasy. He didn't mind to father a child he would never know and never see. In fact it suited him not to be responsible of any kid and just perform the agreeable part. But priestesses were superstitious, and taking the chance of giving birth to a baby with such strange hair and eyes made them avoid him.  

"John!  Anders! Your Highnesses!" a woman voice hailed them as soon as the dance was over.

"Oh genius…" Anders breathed in a stern voice when he saw the druidess of Somerled coming their way: enthusiastic, as always. "Our cover is blown up now," the blond man grunted. Instantly, people around who had been standing beside their rulers all along without noticing it, started moving aside, bowing down and whispering among themselves. Soon, the spouses were the center of attention.

John greeted Madraìd Aileen and offered her the compliments of the season while the aklànder sulked.

"We enjoyed the dance a lot, did we, my love?" John said and Anders nodded politely. "Your protégées are truly talented and beautiful: all of them," the brunet added, congratulating the druidess.

"I'm glad you think so, my lord," Madraìd Aileen smiled, "because they want to know if you two would be disposed to take one of them into your bedchamber tonight."

Anders choked on the sip of mulled wine he had just drank. He was bemused.  Not because it was a shocking offer: conjugal fidelity didn't forbid what was considered as a sacred privilege. " _It's not unfaithfulness if it's with a priestess,_ " said the proverb. What was surprising the blond man was that the priestesses wanted to bed him, of all men.  "Me as well!?" he asked, just to be sure he had heard the right thing.

"You especially, Your Grace," the druidess rectified.

Anders stayed dumbfounded.

"You made quite an impression on my girls when you came to the temple for the wedding,”she added. “Since I explained to them that you were born the way you are, that you weren't dangerous in any way and that Lord James had chosen you to be our lord's husband precisely because of your uniqueness, now they all want to sleep with you," she explained with a fond laugh.

"Who can blame them?" John chuckled nervously, shifting from one foot to the other.

The blond man felt his lord's arm coming around his waist and his hand squeeze his opposite hip through his kilt. He had learnt to recognize that gesture by now. That was the one of an insecure John.  

"I appreciate the compliment and I'm sorry to disappoint your protégées, Madraìd," Anders apologized, "but unless my lord decides otherwise, we will enjoy what is left of this night solely." He never thought he could turn down that kind of opportunity in the blink of an eye. It had been surprisingly easy and he was stunned to realize he didn’t feel any regret whatsoever.

The arm around Anders' waist relaxed and the hand moved to the small of his back.

"I understand, don't worry," she replied, "but there will be a few broken hearts I'm afraid."

The druidess wished them both a good night and a happy winter, and she left in the crowd.

The spouses were left alone: at least, as alone as they could be in a crowd of citizens who were staring and gossiping.

"You should have put on a scarf," John remarked in a low voice.

"Why? Are you afraid my delicate neck might freeze?" Anders teased, before emptying his cup of mulled wine in one gulp.

"No… well yes… but it's more about hiding the…marks," John said, running a thumb on the side of Anders throat, brushing carefully over the purple mark his teeth had left there the night before. "I don't want people to think I'm molesting my husband."

"We are in the dark, John, and anyway, most people can recognize a love bite when they see one," Anders argued. "Let them see," he added with a naughty smirk, pulling his collar down to reveal it even more, "I really don't mind."

Obviously, those words had put the brunet's insecurity to rest for good. "Why do I want you so much?" John purred, capturing his spouse's chin in his hand.

"Hmm," Anders pondered, "my athletic shape, my boyish good looks, my sexy brains perhaps?"

"All of those reasons and many more," the lord replied, before taking a shameless kiss from his lips as the whispers around them gained in vehemence.

Anders didn't care about the audience. He had only one idea now: getting under his hunk of a husband's kilt a soon as possible. "Remind me what we are doing here?" he asked, slightly breathless from the long kiss.  

"Celebrating."

"I suggest we take the celebrations somewhere private."

"You're reading my mind."

***

 

 _"… and spend the long nights in cheerful delights to drive the cold winter away,"_ Anders hummed as they walked to their apartments. "How did it get so cold here?" he noticed with a shiver when they stepped in the bedroom and he made the mistake of removing his coat right away.

"All the servants are at the fest: that explains why nobody came to rekindle the fire," John remarked, kneeling on the thick carpet in front of the hearth.  

"They didn't have a thought for their poor, neglected masters. We should _fire_ them all," Anders joked, reaching for the lighter on the table.

John chuckled at the bad pun and took the lighter from his husband's outstretched hand.

Annie was also gone to town visiting some friends and she had brought Tiolam along since she was supposed to take care of the baby fox while Anders was posing for the painter. The bedroom was awfully quiet without the pup's constant happy and hungry yelping. The consort looked forward to getting his pet back in the morning.

He sat in the armchair as John put brushwood and logs in the hearth.

Too bad the servants were all gone tonight. The blond man took personal pride knowing that some of the manservants would now heave desperate sighs every time they passed in front of the bedroom's door. They knew that their Lord would not invite them in his bed anymore. The blond man was now a permanent company to the young lord, making sure he never felt lonely. As often as he could, Anders also tried to make John moan loudly when he knew that one of them was outside in the corridor.

"I'm hungry," Anders stated, detailing John's silhouette against the light of the fire.  He didn't even need to see his husband's face to know that he was desirable. The cascade of wild curls falling on his shoulders and back when he removed his tam hat had the color of onyx with highlights that reminded Anders of a stag's coat. It appealed him like a selkie without its seal skin.

"You're always hungry," John laughed, adding a log into the hearth. "I can go to the kitchen and fetch some bread and fruits we can eat here if you want."

Anders stood up from his chair and crossed the few steps separating him from his lover. He put his arms around the brunet's shoulders, unclipped his cloak and tossed the piece of clothing away. Then, he kneeled on the carpet behind his husband, pushed the dark mane to the side to get access to the tender spot under his spouse's ear. "I'm not hungry for food, John," he told him, letting his breath tickle and tease the neck of the taller man. "Not for food…" he repeated before placing two kisses where the smooth skin of the neck met the stubble on the cheek.

"What are you hungry for?" the brunet asked, playing dumb: his hushed, breathy voice betraying his already growing desire.

"My husband," Anders replied, his hands pushing the brown tartan fabric off the brunet's shoulder. Still on his knees, Mitchell turned around to face his husband and  he tied his hair in a low ponytail with a leather lace to keep it out of the way.

Anders kissed his lord insistently, taking off the warrior's coat, still giving him all the time he needed to turn him away if he had changed his mind and didn't wish for a physical intercourse. But the way the taller man was quivering under his touch as the Aklànder proceeded to unbutton his shirt, treasuring every inch of skin he uncovered in the process with kisses and nips, told Anders that John was very much into what they were doing.

"Is it alcohol making you that flirty?" John inquired, stretching his neck and closing his eyes as the blond man threw his shirt on a nearby chair.

"No, it's you that has this effect on me," Anders objected in a hoarse tone. "Your voice is music to my ears," he went on, his finger tracing the dark aureole of a perky nipple. "Your beauty is fire to my loins," he added, before replacing his digit with his tongue and teeth. John let out a short "ah!" at the sudden, sharp sensation.  

Anders' palm was going down the warrior's stomach, marveling at the firmness of the contracted abdominal muscles, but John caught his wrist midway to guide his hand directly under the woolen fabric of his kilt. "Touch me, Anders," he shuddered.  

The consort's hand grazed the skin of the heavy testicles and went up along the hard, pulsing shaft. He allowed his fingers to run through the tuft of curls between the young man's legs. It was a sensation he was not yet fully accustomed to.  Touching his husband felt so different than touching a woman and Anders found it incredibly arousing. There were plains and valleys where he usually found hills and there were angles instead of curves. Even if he had taken the time to map his husband's body during their stay in Eelry, he could still feel the excitation of novelty.

"Let me see what I'm doing to you," Anders demanded. He could feel and hear John reacting to his caresses, both vocally and physically, but now he also wanted to watch.

John grabbed the front of his kilt, lifted it up and tucked it in his belt so the older man could get a better view.  

"You make me want you very bad right now," John panted, pulling Anders closer for a kiss.

There were rare times when Anders realized how young his husband actually was:  a still quite young man whose life, titles bestowed on him and the weight of power had forced into acting older than his days. He was asking for sex, sure, but those doe eyes were screaming _"make me feel loved and alive."_

"You look magnificent like that," Anders commented, running his hands over his lord's thighs and bended knees. He leant forward to kiss John's neck and whisper: "would you like to kneel on top of me?"  

"You want us to make love that way?" John asked, his pupils getting darker and drinking the firelight.

"Yes. I'd like to try, but only if you want it too," he replied. It was the blond man's favorite position with girls, but he had never tried it with John… he was curious and aroused by the idea of his beautiful spouse being on top of him. When the brunet nodded, Anders removed his shirt, he brought their naked chests together and showered the brunet's shoulders with feverish kisses.  

Leaving on the carpet in front of the now roaring fire a young man panting with anticipation, Anders went to the nightstand to fetch the oil vial. He could feel on his back the hazel gaze monitoring his every move impatiently.

Once by his lover's side again, Anders made him lie down gently on the carpet and then, he took his time to make sure his lover would be comfortable enough to take him in.

Neither of them had removed their kilts, but they didn't have to, since they never wore anything underneath. Anders lied on his back on the carpet. John straddled his hips and pushed the front of the blond's kilt up on his stomach.  

His young husband was obviously a natural at riding another man, because none of the girls Anders had slept with ever got him hot so quickly as that hairy brunet who was lowering himself on him with fervor.

They lost themselves in their lovemaking, basking in the halo of warmth coming from the fireplace. Anders found his husband magnificent and irresistible; his olive skin kissed by the firelight and his sweaty flanks glistering like molten copper. John looked down at him, mouth agape and his breath heavy.  Suddenly, Anders felt it once again: this fear that was taking him every time he saw his husband so enraptured. _"Will I ever be able to love him enough?"_  he worried. " _Will I ever be able to give him all he needs and deserves?"_

Shaky and clumsy from the intensity of the pleasure: Anders' hands reached for John's belt buckle. He freed his husband's legs from the kilt's fabric and roamed his palms on the toned thighs and stomach. With a groan of possessive lust, he grasped the young man's hips and dug his thumbs in the hollows inside the jutting hipbones.

John gasped for air and moaned from the sensation as Anders guided him up and down. The brunet wrapped his hand around his achingly hard member, but one of the blond's hands left his hip to lace his fingers with John's around his erection. "Let me," he offered.

"Anders!!," John whimpered, overwhelmed by all the sensations invading his body as his partner stroked him.

Anders let it go; moaning and feeling the delicious yearning one experienced when he had everything but kept wanting more. "Come here so I can kiss you," he demanded, pulling his husband down gently, but the younger man resisted, shaking his head frantically, the moans tumbling from his parted lips growing louder. "I…I can't…" he stuttered.

"Oh," Anders understood, "you found a good angle there, yes?"

"Ye..yess," John  nodded. He threw his head back and his low-pitched cry echoed in the room.  

"That's fine, maiseach…. keep on pleasuring yourself on me… I'm … here for that…… aahh… so good….," Anders encouraged him, feeling by the thickness of John's member in his hand and by the tension building up somewhere in his own overheated body, that they were both close to climax.   

Digging his blunt nails in the flesh of the blond man's pectorals, John bit down his lower lip and Anders felt the strength of his lover's orgasm wash over him like the forceful waves of a sea storm.  As John stayed there, moaning and shuddering through his release,  Anders took him firmly by the waist. He rolled his hips forward, off the floor and into his husband's body: three, four, five more times and it was his turn to be carried away by the tide.

He closed his eyes and didn't move for a while, boneless and breathless, only moaning in protest when he felt John leaving his place on top of him. He didn't move either when John worked off his belt to discard his soiled kilt.

"It was… hmm… it was delicious…," Anders whispered, finally opening his eyes when his lover came back to snuggle with him on the carpet after cleaning himself up.  

"Did I quench your thirst for me a little?" John inquired with a little laugh, nuzzling the side of the blond's neck with a content sigh.

The aklànder rolled on top of his husband, taking him by surprise and traced a path of kisses along the brunet's sternum. "I'm afraid my thirst for you is unquenchable."   

John stretched his back under him with a sleepy smile. "I can't help but be a little flattered by those words."

"I allow you to be flattered," Anders smiled. A thing he appreciated of being married with a man, and a strong one, was that he could lie on top of his partner and never have to worry about crushing him. John could take Anders' compact weight just fine.

The aklànder laid his head down on John's left pectoral and long fingers came carding into the hair at the base of his scalp in an affectionate massage.

Anders felt good, perhaps even too good. His spouse's steady heartbeat and calm breathing, the fingers in his hair and the hand traveling up and down his back, the warmth of John's skin and of the fire, the crackling of the logs in the hearth: all of that was lulling Anders to sleep and he felt powerless to resist. He really was on the verge of falling asleep when he felt John stirring under him, uncomfortable. Anders changed position and lied down onto his side on the carpet. He took John's kilt he had tossed away earlier and placed it on their naked bodies as a blanket.  When he kissed the younger man and looked into his eyes, he understood that the discomfort wasn't a physical one.

"There is something I need to tell you," John said, caressing his husband's arm like he wanted to soothe a wound he hadn't caused yet. "I swore to myself I would tell you before the winter, but winter began a few hours ago so I have no choice anymore."

Of course, those words made Anders worried. "It seems serious. What is it? Tell me." It's been a few days that he had the vague intuition that his lord was hiding something from him. He would finally get to know.  

John brought his spouse closer and left a kiss on his forehead before answering the question. "I got news from the south border," he whispered in blond hair, "rumors speak of an imminent nomad attack. I called for the nine clans to gather their armies as soon as possible."

"Right," Anders murmured, thoughtful. It was not good news, but it was not dramatic either. He didn't understand why his husband had concealed that information from him until now. Winter was the time of military campaigns: it was the same thing nearly each year so it didn't really come as a surprise. Anders wasn't pleased, but could live with that change in his life.

His next thought was for his fox. _What about Tiolam?_ he wondered. He could always leave her here in Brastàl. Annie would surely be happy to do fox-sitting for a few moons… but Anders would truly miss the little fur ball. Maybe John would agree if he asked him to be allowed to bring his pup along. Foxes had keen ears. She was still young. He could train her to yelp and warn them of dangers and ambushed enemies. Also, since his wedding, Anders had spent his time mostly in bed and eating too much: he would have to get back to weapon training seriously, but he could manage to get fit and ready in a few weeks. This campaign would be a good thing for Ornàn as well. A warhorse that had never seen a battle in its whole life: it was getting a bit ridiculous.

"When are we leaving?" the blond wanted to know, lifting his chin to meet the young man's gaze.

John cupped his husband's face in his hands with a sigh, running his thumbs on Anders' cheekbones, looking into his eyes with a sadness that made the blond man expect the worst.

"I’m leaving next week, but you won't be accompanying me," John told him.  

And instantly, Anders knew what it would feel like to fall down a donjon tower.

 

 


	2. A Man of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I hate destiny for giving me something good for once in my life, only to pry it from my hands right away."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update took a little while. I still hope you will enjoy this new chapter. 
> 
> I want to thank Dragon4488 for the awesome work she did so far with the illustrations. 
> 
> A lot of hugs and thanks to my beta and translator, the amazing Katyushha. The northern princess of my heart.

"Anders…"

"Go back to sleep, John," Anders sighed, as a response to his spouse calling him from the other side of the baldaquin's curtain.

"Will you not join me in the bed?" the brunet asked.

The silence that followed spoke volumes: the consort didn't reply, staring at the flames in the hearth. He heard the rustle of fabric when the curtains were pushed aside and  the shuffling of bare feet approaching on the floor.

"Damn it, Anders!" the warrior groaned, stepping between the fireplace and the armchair, forcing his husband to acknowledge him. "Yell at me, break something or punch me in the face, I don't know, but not this… not this silence treatment: that's worse than anything!"

 

Usually, when he was angry, Anders would make a snarky remark and leave. It was his way of handling an argument.  But now, both the screaming anger and the cold snark had left him for a strange, enclosed apathy. The news that John was to leave for war hadn't come as a surprise: but the one that Anders would not accompany him came as a betrayal.

 

John kneeled down on the carpet and took his husband’s hand in his. Anders didn't withdraw his hand or take his gaze away as the taller man kissed the side of his thumb. "I wish you could understand," the Great Lord begged him, "but more than that, I wish you could trust me enough to share your thoughts with me."

Anders had sworn he would not play with John's feelings or try to manipulate him ever again.  He knew that if he allowed himself to speak now, he would probably try to push the right buttons to make John change his mind and allow him to join the campaign. As a soul born under Braìg, the blond man knew the power of words: and play with his husband like he was puppet: get what he wanted by pulling the warrior's emotional strings was not something he would do again. For now, he preferred silence.

John sighed again and his gaze dropped in defeat as he realized his husband would not speak. He stood up, put a kiss on the top of Anders' head and got back to bed.

Anders was still a victim of that thoughtless bravado he had used with his fiancé the first time they spoke in private at the top of the donjon tower.

 _"I'm just trying to figure out if you'll accompany me in my military campaigns when we're married,"_ John had said. _"If I'll have you by my side on the battlefield or if I'll be longing for your embrace while you're staying here to administrate the castle and the lands."_

 _"I'm as handy with a sword or a spear as the next clan's man,"_ Anders had replied. _"I haven't been groomed to be a warrior, but to be the Great Lord's bed warmer."_

Anders had tried to taunt his future husband by this reply: but all he had managed was to appear like a weakling who would be a burden on the battlefield. John had gotten to see his hunt skills during the trials, but obviously it hadn't been enough to break the misconception he had implanted in the warrior's brain.  And now that the deed was done, Anders was trying his best not to be an arsehole about it or John would not even long for his embrace while away.

Another Anders from a previous life would have accepted the situation quite well: being the sole master of the castle for months, not having his spouse and liege to watch him. He would be totally free to do anything he wanted for all winter. But he had changed: marriage had changed him. Freedom and power didn't seem that appealing anymore: and long, cold moons without his young husband suddenly seemed like the real prison.

***

 

Lady Catrìona McCallum had given birth to a little girl two weeks ago and the news just arrived in Brastàl.

The political and military correspondence was John's responsibility: but as his consort, the civil one was Anders'. He had to reply to the letter and offer his congratulations to the parents and his best wishes and blessings to the new noble heiress.

It was already the fourth version Anders was writing. The last three had been crumpled into balls and thrown to the floor. One by one, Tiolam took those unexpected toys between her teeth and brought them under the bed. The fox cub was busy shredding the paper to tiny pieces that Anders would be forced to tidy up later. But for now, the blond man was tapping the tip of his feather pen on his chin as he thought.

Everybody knew the McCallums were the Duncans' closest allies and that they had voted against John at the Great Lord's election.

 

_Brastàl, First day of Ôd, first year of the 11th GL (May he live long)_

 

_Dear Lord and Lady,_

_I know you hate my husband and would probably take the first opportunity to stab us in the back, but congratulations for having reproduced._

_Best regards_

 

_Anders Johan Deaghan Johnson Mitchell, Great Consort of the North Hills Federation._

 

 

No. He couldn't possibly send a letter like that. That's what he wanted to write: but what he had to do was just to reaffirm the interest of the rulers in what happened in the clans: not starting a war.

The manipulation, the flattery, playing with words: these were usually easy for him. But since John told him he would leave soon, his mind was constantly going back to that matter and he couldn't concentrate on anything else. He didn't even recognize himself. Where was the strong independent Aklànder who needed no man? He was gone with the autumn wind, apparently.

Anders couldn't even figure out what was upsetting him the most: the thought of John leaving him or the fact that he realized he needed his husband? Would he stoop as low as begging John to bring him along? He had let some walls tumble down and his husband was now his lover, but Anders still had pride, and he wasn’t of the begging kind. He was more astute than that.

 

A knock on the bedroom's door tore him out of his musing. Tiolam yelped and ran out from under the bed and to the door, but Anders caught her before she could reach it. "No no, that's not for you they're knocking," he told his pup and put her into her box because he knew she would try to escape outside the bedroom.

"My lady," Anders let out, surprised to find his mother-in-law in the corridor when he finally opened the door. "John is not here," he informed her.  

"I know," she replied with a benevolent smile. "It's not him I wanted to see but you."

"Oh. And how can I help you?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to join me for tea."

"It would be my pleasure," Anders replied. It wasn't like he could say no to her anyway. Lady Mitchell's wishes were orders to everybody in Brastàl's castle. She wasn't tyrannical in any way: she was just the kind of person you would never even have the idea of disobeying,

Anders closed the door behind him and followed the dark-haired woman to her apartments on the first floor.  "Thanks Eilda. You can leave us," she dismissed her lady-in-waiting and made a gesture to invite Anders to sit down in one of the luxurious, upholstered armchairs.

"I'm glad you accepted my invitation," she told him. "It's not every day that we have an occasion to talk in private, you and I."

The young man abstained from raising an eyebrow. From the moment his mother-in-law had appeared in his doorframe, Anders was suspecting this little tea session to be nothing but a device.  "John asked you to speak to me, did he?"

"Yes, he did," she admitted, not trying to lie to him.

"Ha!" Anders scoffed. "I should have guessed this was a trap."  

"I think he was right to ask me," she replied, pouring the infusion in his cup.  "He is worried for you, Anders. And besides, who can understand you better than someone who had been in your shoes for thirty years? I know what being a Great Consort means, my son."

Anders opened his mouth, but, not finding anything to retort, he closed it right away and took his cup instead.

"The anger you are feeling right now is understandable," Lady Mitchell tried to reassure him. "The first separation is always the most difficult. It's never going to be easy, but you'll learn to get used to it at some point."

Anders clenched his teeth. In all honesty, being lectured by his mother-in-law over fancy tea and biscuits was not the way he had planned to spend his afternoon.

"Fine," she said, when she saw his unease. "I'm not going to speak about you. I'm going to speak about me," she decided, filling Anders' plate.

As Anders took a bite of one of the raisin cookies, Lady Ann placed her joined hands in her lap in an elegant gesture and began her story. "I was nineteen when I became James' wife. We had a rough start, because I was fiercely against that marriage." She looked at Anders but didn't point the similarities of their stories out loud. "But with time, patience and love: he won me over. I won't tell you things you wouldn't wish to know from an old lady like me, but let's say that he won my heart as well as everything else… and when I finally understood I loved him, he told me he had to go. Not only was I pregnant and devastated to see him leave, but I was angry at the spirits and the whole universe for wresting him from my arms. I was also angry at him for not understanding how much I needed him by my side: nights and days. "

Anders only listened, keeping a neutral expression, but he felt his heart tighten. What she was describing was exactly what he was living, minus the pregnancy. That feeling of injustice: of being betrayed by fate: he knew it. Maybe he should even regret he had got attached to his spouse so much: but it was too late for that now.

Lady Ann fell silent, taking a few sips from her cup. The blond man took this opportunity to detail his husband’s mother. Only the wrinkles on her forehead and at the corner of her eyes were giving out the number of winters of worry she stayed waiting for her husband to return home. Her feminine and still graceful forms clad in her blue dress were barely betraying the many pregnancies from which only John had come out alive. She was effortlessly beautiful, just like her son. They had the same hazel eyes: bright with tenacity, shrewdness and invincible determination that Anders also found in his husband.

"I didn't want my new husband to abandon me," Ann continued. "I cajoled, I cried, I yelled, but I knew I would not be able to make him change his mind. The Mitchells are warriors and the mightiest of them all. That's why they have been on the throne for five generations now. The longest dynasty of Great Lords from the same clan this country has ever seen. They have been born and they died in the blood of their enemies for two centuries now. That's what they are and nobody, not even you and me, will be able to do anything against it. I remember when John was born. He took his first gulp of air, and then he screamed: screamed with such a force. The midwife told me she had never heard a newborn’s cry so ferocious. I was anxious, because I had lost all my babies before him, but she told me 'be not afraid, my lady, this one really wants to live, and he will: as intensely as he is born. And when he is going to die, in long years from now, he will leave this world with the same battle cry.' The Mitchells are the worst to face on the battlefield but the best to have in your bed. Fierce warriors but tender lovers: they are completely committed to everything they do.  As their spouses: we are as blessed as we are cursed. Fighting for us - for their clan: it's imprinted in their veins. It's the ultimate proof of their unconditional love. That's the reason why John has to leave you," she stated in a firm tone, "and that's why he won't bring you with him. Because it's a task he has to do alone, and because it is his to accomplish, not yours. "

"So, that's what my life will be like?" Anders asked, displeased. "Being left behind and waiting patiently while my husband is busy slicing throats. I've been told since childhood to stay quiet and accept my fate. I had to shut my mouth and accept to marry a man I didn't know, and now that I'm married and I find out I'm happy with that man: I have to let him leave, stay here and endure without saying a single word. Is that it?"

Lady Mitchell sighed. "It is normal that you can't see for now that our way of life also has its advantages. I couldn't see it either the first time I let my James go to war. But the longer were the winters, the merrier were the reunions. I understand now that our love was even more precious for our moments together were ephemeral. When James was here: he was completely devoted to me and our son. I wouldn't have exchanged my life for anyone else's."  She paused a brief moment to refill Anders' cup with tea. "I know that you and John became closer lately, and trust me, I can comprehend the frustration that comes with your situation. But he has decided to bring George with him during the campaign. It means that he trusts you with the castle and the lands: with all his possessions and his people."

"Oh, I guess I should take it as a great honor and be very thankful," Anders huffed.

"No. Probably not," she conceded. "But you should see that it means a lot to him and how much he loves you."

Much to Anders' relief, the conversation drifted to other matters, but when the blond man finally excused himself and stood up to regain his own apartments, he couldn't help but ask her one last question. "Aren't you afraid your son might get badly injured or never even come back?"

"Yes," she replied. "I'm afraid: like every time he leaves."

When Anders got into his bedroom, hundreds of conflicting thoughts in his mind, he realized his husband wasn't there yet. He also noticed that his fox wasn’t in her box and she had not come to greet him as soon as he had stepped in.  In fact: he couldn't find Tiolam anywhere. He even kneeled on the floor and crouched down to look under the bed. Maybe Annie had taken the fox and brought it with her. Anders went back to the corridor, but when he took the stairs to go to the kitchens, he felt a freezing gust and heard the wind whistling above his head.  Someone had left the door leading to the rooftop open. He smiled as he changed direction and climbed up the steps.

From the top of the donjon tower, he could see the sunset coloring the Quigley river with a deep orange shade. With his back to him stood the Great Lord of the North Hills, his long, curly hair left loose and flowing in the breeze.

Anders walked to his husband and put his hand on his arm to catch his attention. John turned around and looked down at him with an unsure expression. Anders silenced his doubts with a chaste peck on the lips.  

"I went to the bedroom and I took Tio with me. We came here to take some fresh air," the warrior explained, opening his cloak to show Anders the baby fox in the crook of his arm. "I thought I would find you here, but since you weren't there I stayed to watch the sun setting."

"I was having tea in your mother's room," Anders informed him, leaning against the low wall at his husband's side.  

"Really?" John wondered innocently. "What did you discuss?"

"Don't play that card with me, John Mitchell," Anders warned him, "I know you set it all up."

"Well, I'm sure taking tea with my mother wasn't that awful."

"No, it wasn't awful. It was… interesting in fact."

"Oh, you want to go in daddy's arms, do you?" John asked the squirming and yelping fox that tried to get out of his grip.

"I'm not her daddy," Anders protested, still reaching to take his pet. "I'm her slave and seeing my face means food to her. That's why she likes me," he stated as Tiolam was licking him under the chin. "Sometimes I suspect that you use her as an excuse to convince me to adopt heirs," the aklànder accused his husband, frowning.  

"Would that be so bad?"

"You already know my take on it, John."

"You're the consort and as such, the decision of having heirs is yours to take," John conceded.

"Just like the one of leaving me behind all winter is yours to take," Anders replied, tit for tat, in a tone slightly more acid than he intended.

"We already talked about it, Anders," the brunet sighed. "I already explained why I took this decision and I-"

"Yes, yes, I know," Anders interrupted him. "Given all the recent events including the arsonist's threats, the sunken boat, the destroyed bridge and the scarecrow, you are afraid that there might be a conspiracy against you and me, but mainly targeting me. After that dead bird had been left on our doorstep during our wedding night, you suspect Lord Duncan to be the center of it and you want me out of his immediate reach, and since you had to choose the lesser of two evils, you figured out I would be safer here at the castle."

"How do you know… about the scarecrow…?" John stuttered, eyes wide and taken aback. It took him less than ten seconds to answer his own question. "George…" he grunted.  

"Don't blame him," Anders defended the guards' chief. "I knew you were hiding something from me and I asked him what it was about. He thinks that I'm safer if I'm aware of what exactly are the threats against my life and I think it's wise."

"I didn't want to worry you uselessly, but now I guess you're mad at me for not telling you."

"No. You were trying to spare me. You had no evil intentions."

"If you understand my reasons for not bringing you along in the military campaign, why are you acting that way, then?" the brunet enquired.

"I'm not really angry with you," Anders explained, putting the fox to the ground so she could explore the surroundings. "I thought I was, but something your mother told me made me realize that the cause of my resentment wasn’t you. I hate destiny for giving me something good for once in my life, only to pry it from my hands right away.  But the fact that I understand your reasons doesn’t mean I approve of them. I still think my place is by your side."    

"Your place _is_ by my side. Even far away, you'll always be my husband," John assured him, "but please, _a ghraìd,_ don't make it more difficult than it already is," he pleaded, drawing his consort into his arms and burying his face in the crook of Anders' neck, his voice breaking on the lasts words.

The blond man held his husband tight into his arms.  "I do not agree with your decision. And as hard as I try, I don't think I ever will, " Anders warned him. "But I don't want to make the same mistake I did at the beginning of our marriage. I don't want to waste the time we could spend close to each other by being a prick. I won't spoil what is left for us before you leave," the blond man vowed.

"You couldn't give me a better parting gift," John whispered, lifting his head and turning it to the side, his mouth searching for Anders'.

They stood there, kissing and lost in the other's embrace for a long moment. When they parted, the aklànder managed to catch his fox that seemed to think it was a very funny game to run away from him.

They ate their supper in their room and spent the rest of the evening in cuddles and lazy kissing. It was the first time for Anders when being in bed with a partner without it involving sex felt right. He surprised himself by enjoying the simple proximity: the intimacy of their embrace, the smell and the heartbeat of his husband. Sometimes, like tonight, he didn't need more than that. It was easy and natural since the younger man was giving him his affection so freely. Whenever they were together, in public or not, John was all over him like an enamored feline. He always had at least one hand on Anders: whether it was on the small of his back, on his shoulder or his hip. With anybody else, it would have annoyed the hell out of Anders, but with his husband, he found it strangely fine.  After all, those small gestures were only meant to say "I'm here and I love you." By now, it wasn't a secret for anybody in the castle, the town or even the country that the Great Lord was besotted with his consort. Those who weren't slandering about their ruler being under some kind of witch spell were beginning to call him 'John The Lover'.

"I prefer that to 'the terrible' or 'the sanguinary'," the lord had chuckled lightheartedly when Anders reported having heard some officials calling him that way behind his back.  

Later that night, Anders fell asleep with the head of John The Lover nestled on his shoulder and the brunet’s hand resting over his heart like the one of a vigilant guardian.

 

***

 

_The red silhouette dragged John away from him. Anders reached to grab him but failed because his lover's hand was slippery with blood. Anders tried to yell his name, but he was mute. It felt like there were blood clots in his mouth, making him nauseous. It was too late and John disappeared in a red vortex that splashed the nasty red liquid all over Anders' body._

 

"Ar' you fine, m'love?" Mitchell questioned, still half-asleep. "You're all sweaty and you're trembling," he noticed, sudden concern pulling him out of his slumber.

"I'm sorry if I woke you up," Anders apologized as he turned over to face the other man, "I had a nightmare, that's all."

John kissed his hairline and pushed back the blond curls plastered on his wet forehead. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nah… it's silly."

"Well, obviously it's not if it makes you this restless."

Anders hesitated. "If I tell you, you're going to laugh," he said in a small, unsure voice.

"I won't," John promised, carding his fingers through the messy blond mane, "just tell me."

Anders stayed silent for a few seconds but he finally confessed in a hushed tone: "I dreamed that you were abducted by the Red Man."

John didn't laugh but stayed pensive.

Anders knew it could seem like a very childish bad dream. The Red Man was a sort of monster the parents were using to scare their children and get them to obey. There wasn't a child in the North Hills who had never been threatened to be kidnapped by the Red Man if they didn't finish eating their soup. John and Anders were too old now to still believe in the existence of the Red Man, but this tale was still based on real facts. The nomads from the plains worshipped Taranis: the vengeful divinity associated with tempests and war. They made human sacrifices to this god and during the ceremony; the shaman of the tribe would bathe naked in the victim's blood and perform a dance to appease the god's perpetual anger. Anders had never witnessed one of those sacrifices, he had never even seen a nomad, but that kind of ceremony would probably be terrifying even for an adult.

John seemed to suspect  it wasn't really the Red Man that was frightening Anders, because he asked him: "Did you have that dream because I'm leaving soon?"

"That would be logical," Anders mused.

"Are you afraid something might happen to me?" 

"Of course I am!" Anders replied, looking indignant. "In eight days, I'm going to watch my husband leave at the head of an army, not knowing if I'll ever see him again."

"I'll come back. I always do. Ask Annie, she'll tell you," John reassured him. "But you shouldn't think about it now, a ghraìd. Being worried can't change anything about the future anyway. Here and now I'm still with you."

Anders raised a brow. "Are you positive you're still here? Maybe it's just another dream."

"No. You're not dreaming: I assure you," John smiled in the dark, stroking his husband's arm and chest with his calloused palm. "I can still touch you, do you feel it?"

"Hm, I'm not sure…."

Mitchell leant forward and put a light kiss to Anders' lips. "What proof do you need, then?" he whispered.

Anders wrapped his arms around his lover's mid-section and pulled him on top of him. "As a better evidence of your presence in this bed, my lord and husband, I need to feel you… completely," he purred. Yes: that delicious brunet fucking the fear out of his body and mind was exactly what he needed. John's warm skin on his, like a bandage on a wound, would help soothing the anxiety.

"You know that my life purpose is to cater to your every need, my beloved consort," John assured him, not losing any time and already trailing kisses down Anders' chest.

 

***

 

Anders woke up one hour and a half before dawn, roused and determined: focused on a very precise plan he had to execute.  He tiptoed in the room while getting dressed in his warmest kilt and a coat. He wrapped rectangles of wool fabric around his calves and shins and tied them up with leather laces to keep them in place.

He knew where his husband kept his keys. Making sure they wouldn't rattle: he managed to steal the one that unlocked the storeroom of the armory where the armors were kept.  He left the room quietly, after making sure John was still asleep in their bed.

The castle's servants were still sleeping and the corridors empty and silent as he hurried to the armory. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that there were no guards in front of the door.

Some of the armors he found in there, displayed on the multiple wooden mannequins, were old and used. Some had holes in them and the blond man wondered with a shiver if warriors had died wearing them.

Most of those pieces probably belonged to John's ancestors. They were his ancestors too, as it turned out, since he was a Mitchell now. The names of the owners were engraved on each wooden dummy that wore the armors. Some of the names were vaguely familiar. Lady Elizabet had made Anders learn by heart twelve generations of the Mitchells’ family tree, but the young man had made a point of forgetting the names nearly as fast as he had learnt them.  

Fascinated, he let his fingers brush over the gold and silver patterns of the Great Lord's ceremonial armor: a piece of great art skill and luxury, too beautiful and impractical to be worn on a battlefield but made to impress. He had never seen John in it yet, but he would surely look magnificent. Next to it was Lord James' armor, and, at the very end of the row: John's battle armor. Anders would not take that one: he was searching for the simple leather one his husband was using for training. When he finally found it, he took it from the dummy and put it aside.

He now had to find one that would fit himself. It would be difficult since all the Mitchells obviously had a stronger, larger and taller bearing than he did. He searched for a long time until he found the armor, smaller than the others and that seemed to be in a good shape. It was part leather, part metal – a training armor of a particular kind. It was not too rusty, so probably less than thirty years old. Anders tried the braces on and knew the rest of the armor would fit as well. When he took the rest of the pieces from the mannequin, he noticed the symbol of the Mitchells, the fist and the two arrows, engraved on the breastplate.

The aklànder was not used to adjusting armor straps and he was even worse at doing it on himself. It took him a while and a few muffled curses to put it on. But the result was worth it. When he looked at himself in the old, polished bronze mirror, he thought that now nobody could deny that he looked like a warrior. Intrigued to know who had been the owner of the armor that fitted him so perfectly, Anders pushed the mannequin that turned around on its base with a squeak of protest. _First Heir John Mitchell_ was engraved in the wood at the back of it.  He smiled fondly. It was his husband' former armor: one that he had most likely worn somewhere between the age of fourteen and seventeen.

Anders took John's adult armor under one arm, locked up the storeroom, took two training sticks from a rack and he went back to his bedroom. Once there, the first thing he did was light a few candles in the dark room.  

"On your feet, soldier!" Anders said in a loud, commanding tone as he opened the bed's curtains and dropped Mitchell's training armor on the bed.

"Wh-what!?" John mumbled, sitting up: alarmed and confused. The brunet rubbed the sleepiness away from his eyes and looked at his husband properly, his mouth agape for a few seconds. It was the first time he saw his spouse wearing battle equipment. "Wow, Anders… you look-"

"Handsome and incredibly manly, I know,” the aklànder supplied. “Now get up and get dressed. We have training to do," he ordered.  

"Yes, Your Grace," John obeyed after a few seconds of silent incomprehension. He pushed the covers aside and left the bed.  He did as asked and followed Anders out of the castle, carrying the wooden sticks his husband had asked him to take with him.

"Where are you going your highnesses?" one of the guards inquired when they asked him to open the gate.

"I have no idea," John shrugged.

"Bring me a torch," Anders demanded, choosing not to answer the question. That was none of this guard’s business, to start with. They were the rulers: they did whatever they wanted and it was even rude of that guard to ask.  

"Why are we training at this uncanny hour of the night?" John asked as they walked around the city wall and headed to the north.

"Think of it as a kind of investment."

"An investment," the brunet echoed, not sure he understood his husband's enigmatic statement.

"Yes, I'm investing my time and my precious hours of sleep in you," Anders explained. "And I will do the same every morning until you leave."

"And what benefices are you expecting from that investment?" the lord wanted to know.

"If you are better trained, I'm expecting to increase my chances to get you back."

"Oh," John breathed. They took a path leading to the top of a small hill in the countryside and walked for a while before the warrior spoke up again. "But you must know that money-wise, it would be more advantageous for you if I didn't come back. You'd be the sole master of Brastàl and its treasure."

"Probably, but I'm not doing this for money," Anders asserted.

"No? What for, then?"

"The sex, John," Anders winked, "the sex."

But if Anders was totally honest, it was not really because of sex that he wanted to make sure John was ready for the military campaign, and hence, that he would come back to him. Of course, to have John back in the spring and be able to taste the joys of his body again was a good motivation enough, but more than that, this training was a way for Anders to prove himself to his husband. Not so deep inside, he was still hoping the warrior would change his mind and accept that he joined the troops. If the lord saw that he was not useless at fighting, it might help his cause. If his persuasion tactic didn't work, there was still the option of not leaving John any other chance but to let him come, and this training would be a way for Anders to get ready for the war.

 

They reached the top of the hill. The night was cold and the long grass was white and covered in frost. Anders planted the torch in the frozen ground and he caught the training stick John had playfully thrown in his direction.  

"Ready to defend yourself?" the aklànder smirked, adopting a fighting posture.

"You're holding your stick like it's a spear," the lord remarked.  

"You're holding yours like it's a sword," Anders retorted, rolling his eyes and imitating John's scolding tone.

"That's the whole point, no?"

"These are wooden sticks: I see no sword… or spear for that matter."

"Fine, I understand. It's your combat style against mine, then," John accepted. "What does the winner get?"

"The loser," Anders smirked. "The winner gets to do anything he wants to the loser."  

"Fair enough," the brunet's agreed with a feral grin.

They set it to a five touches combat.

"Don't you dare spare me," the blond warned his husband before they began.

"I won't: the reward is too interesting."

They gauged each other for a few seconds and John attacked first, with the confident and self-possessed smile of someone who knew he would win. Anders had seen it coming and managed to block the first blow, but the second one came before he could anticipate it and hit him directly on his breastplate. He was sure to lose, but he wouldn't surrender without putting up a fight.

As soon as the fight began, and even with only the faint light of the torch, Anders could see the immediate change in his husband. This wasn't John the Lover, the one that acted sometimes like a lovesick teenager: gentle, cuddly and tender. This was John Bloodborn; the warrior. His eyes were dark like the ones of a wild hound. Every of his moves was precise, calculated, fluid – deadly. Anders knew the taller man wouldn't hurt him on purpose, but he still thanked the spirits his husband had only a wooden stick in his hands and not something metallic and sharp.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John's blows were rapid and powerful and Anders wasn't really able to counterattack, but he managed to block a good number of them. It wasn't enough to let him win though, and soon enough, the lord had already made five hits connect to different parts of the aklànders' armor.

Anders was exhausted and wanted only one thing: go back to bed, while, for his spouse, this first fight was only an appetizer.

The blond understood that he couldn't give up just now. Breathless, he asked his husband for a revenge round and to determine the winner after three combats instead of one. John agreed with a nod, eager to fight again.

At the end of the third round, when they finally laid down their arms and the blond man had admitted his defeat, smiling-John instantly replaced dark-John as the young man walked to his consort. "You are tenacious and impressively agile, my little fox," John said, grabbing Anders' forearm like a lord greeting another. "You fought well."

He had lost: and soundly, but Anders still felt his chest swell with pride at the gesture. But the blond man was happy he wasn't another lord, because if he was, John wouldn't have taken his chin in his large hand and pressed a peck on his lips.  

 

"Ahh," the brunet let out, sitting down on the ground with a content exhale, like someone who just took a gulp of refreshing water. "This was fun, wasn't it?" he grinned.

"Hm, yes," Anders mumbled, sitting at his spouse's side in the frozen grass, massaging his left arm. Despite the armor: all his body felt stiff and bruised.

The sun was rising: lengthening the shadows and making the frost sparkle. Anders watched a frozen spider web with silent contemplation.The first lights of the day made it look like precious fairy laces.  

"Do you really have to go?" he asked his husband out of the blue.

John's arm came around his shoulders. "Yes. I do," was the firm reply and it left no room for protest.

"I always thought Brastàl would be a shithole," Anders confessed, looking ahead at the city walls down the hill, "but now that I live here, well, I still think it's a shithole but… you know….," he went on, hesitating. His husband had ducked his head to the side to look at his face and listen to him. John was now waiting for the outcome, so Anders took a slow breath.  "Now that shithole is home for me… because there's you and …" he halted again. Why was it so hard to say?  "And….. I really care for you… deeply."

John smiled softly. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Oi! I'm pouring my heart out here!" Anders protested. "It's a big deal for me: and all you say is 'thank you'!? Wouldn't you have at least the decency of looking a bit surprised?"

"I would be lying if I said I am surprised, Anders. I already knew you cared for me. But I'm still very glad and grateful you say it now: so I can enjoy it for a little while. It's a good thing you didn't wait longer to finally blurt it out on the morning of my departure."

"It was my original plan," the blond man grunted. "How did you guess?"

John dragged him down into his arms so they were now lying entwined in the cold grass. "I love you, a ghraìd," he murmured in a hoarse tone, crawling on top of the smaller man and spreading his legs with his knees.

"What are you doing?" Anders shuddered.

"Taking my reward," John stated, cupping the nape of his neck and nibbling at Anders' jugular.

"Here?" Anders asked, a bit puzzled. Since he moved to Brastàl, he had learnt that the customs here were more conservative. In his homeland, the mores were quite liberated when it came to sex. John was reluctant to have sexual intercourses anywhere else than in their bedroom. He was more of a believer than Anders was, and hence, the brunet observed with religious dedication the precept saying that making love to his spouse was a sacred act that had to be accomplished in the sanctuary of their conjugal bed. Apparently, today his lord had decided to ignore his creed.  

"What has been won on the battlefield must be claimed on the battlefield," John smirked before leaning down to leave a searing kiss on his mouth.  

If his spouse wanted to have him here and now, Anders would not complain. In fact, he could even feel the first stirring of arousal enveloping his lower body as he let John explore with his lips and tongue. He was already turning into jelly in the warrior’s capable hands.   

The brunet slipped a hand underneath the aklànder's coat and shirt and his cold fingers caught a sensitive nipple that hardened instantly. Anders moaned from the sensation as John rubbed it gently, still kissing him. The brunet parted from his well-deserved prize long enough to hint: "now imagine what the contrast of my cool lips on the hot skin underneath your kilt must feel like."

"You are the winner," Anders pointed out in a weak protest, "therefore I should be the one gracing you with this kind of distraction, my lord."

John shook his head. "The deal was that the winner got to do anything he wanted to the loser, if I'm not mistaken. Then, if my wish is to pleasure you…"

"You have every right to do so," Anders supplied.

"Exactly."

"Sweet spirits!" Anders cursed as his husband's hands were already busy lifting up his kilt.  The cold wind on his naked legs was not so disagreeable. He closed his eyes and gasped when Mitchell's fresh and eager mouth made contact with the inside of his thigh. Why was it only now when he discovered the bliss of married life and understood he needed his husband that he had to be parted from him? It was not only unfair: it was cruel.

Anders’ fingers found their right place in dark curls, tugging gently and he moaned for all the hills to hear when he was suddenly plunged into the hot sweetness of his partner's mouth.   

 

***

Apart from the daily weapon training at dawn, Anders' plan had a second phase: which was proving to John he held solid strategic knowledge. He had very limited time to do so.

Anders knew he was clever: now he had to convince his husband he could also be useful on a battlefield. The thing was that Anders had no military education whatsoever. His step-mother had made sure to keep him far from this study subject. He was meant to be a consort after all, not a warlord. So now, he had no choice but to acquire this science as an autodidact.

He had skimmed the castle's library in search of everything about the ways of war. During the day, when John was busy, he was reading the heavier books, seated on cushions and hidden behind the library's shelves where nobody even went, with a bag of candied almonds and his baby fox sleeping on his lap. In the evenings, before going to bed, he was reading the smaller treaties, hidden inside the covers of his favorite erotic novels. As long as John thought he was reading naughty stories and not something more consequential...

At the end of the week, convinced that John was in the council hall in a meeting with the governor of Somerled, Anders entered the library once more for his daily study. It was the end of the afternoon, the weather was clement and Annie was with Tiolam in the garden. Anders was planning on grabbing a book and reading it outside in the hammock. He was surprised to find a book opened on the main reading desk: one that Anders hadn't read yet. Someone must have forgotten to put in back on its shelf. He flipped it closed to read the title. It was a geographical military treaty, written long ago by a former Great Lord. He went back to the page where the reader had left it open and studied the map of the North Hills drawn there. He let his fingers linger on the Johnsons' lands: _Orchard bay, Apple Point, Aklànd, Mistbank, Wodden and Tràsg,_  his fingertip hopping from one point to the other, he silently mouthed the familiar names one after another. He expected it to stir some kind of homesickness – it didn't.

Someone had annotated the map in the margins, he turned the book to read the inscriptions but he didn't have the time before a low-pitched voice said his name and arms sneaked around his waist from behind, making him jump.

"Don't do that!" Anders scolded his husband, still shaken.  

"Do what?" the lord asked, blowing warm air into the blond's neck.

"Say my name in a terse fashion from behind me," he grunted.

"What are you doing here, jumpy little spy?" John teased him, nuzzling the stubble on his jawline.

"I'm taking interest in my husband's work," the blond man hastened to reply. "So this is where you're going to go with the army?" Anders inquired, putting his forefinger on the black point indicating the city of Archerwall, on the south border of the North Hills.  

"Yes, I think it's the most vulnerable city," John explained, resting his chin on the top of his consort's shoulder. "I'm also going to send the Douglas' and the Keir's armies to Greenlea and disperse several contingents between the two cities along the river. I have no idea where the nomads are going to try to cross this time," he added, taking Anders' hand and making the blond's finger travel on the paper page as he explained his strategy.

"And my brother's troops?" the blond man questioned him.

"They are going to stay posted in Archerwall with my own. I'll keep your brothers by my side."

"Brothers?" Anders wondered, emphasising the plural.

"Yes, Lord Mikkel told me in his latest letter that he planned on bringing Sir Axl along since he is now his first heir."

"I've been his first heir for years and he never brought me to any military campaign!" Anders frowned.  

"You were already promised to me," John pointed out, between light kisses to Anders' right temple. "Being a man of war was not really supposed to be your destiny."

"And you think it's Axl's destiny!? He's still a toddler, for the spirits' sake!"

"Don't you think you're exaggerating a bit?" John chuckled. "He is twenty one. I was his age the first time I saw a battlefield. And besides, as long as Mike doesn't have children of his own, Axl is designated to be the one succeeding to him at the head of Johnsons' clan," the brunet reminded his husband.

The idea of his younger brother on the throne of Aklànd's castle was nonsense to Anders. For him: Axl would always be a kid.

He leant into John's embrace but kept his attention on the map. Now that he had the map before his eyes he could really measure how far the south border was from Brastàl. The distance as the crow flies was similar to the one separating Brastàl from Anders' homeland. Archerwall was far away… awfully far.

His husband's kisses to his cheek and the side of his neck were getting more pressing. "You're still my prize, aren't you, my fox?"

"Your prize for what?" Anders asked, raising an eyebrow and turning his head to the side to look at the brunet.  

"For having beaten you during our first training."

"It was five days ago," Anders pointed out. "I don't think it still counts."

"I don't remember that we settled a time limit to that reward," John mused, eyes gleaming with mischief.   

"You want to have your wicked way with me by bending me over the reading desk, do you?"

"The idea did cross my mind," John admitted," but I’d want to love you in our bed tonight."

"We don’t have to wait until the night. Let's go upstairs now," Anders suggested. John's body pressed against his back and the insistent nips to the sensitive skin of his neck were a nice enough whet.   

"This will have to wait a bit. I have something to show you first," the lord decided, closing the book and grabbing Anders' hand to lead him out of the library.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see…" John reassured him as they took the stairs to the kitchens.

 

They crossed the whole kitchen area and the servants' quarters, forcing the maids and servants to stop what they were doing and bow down as their masters passed through.  

The two men walked by the large pantry door. At the end of the corridor, there was a locked room. John drew the key from his pocket and unlocked it. At first, Anders saw nothing but a dark, humid room. The tiny basement window was not letting much light in, but John took one of the candles off the wall candlestick and brought it in. Once they entered the room, John closed the door behind them and locked it.

The blond man looked around him. The room was filled with dressers and shelves containing the fancy dishes used only for the official banquets.

"I guess you didn't bring me here to show me plates and cups," Anders pointed out.

"No, you are right," John replied, putting the candle on a shelf. "Help me move that dresser," he asked the smaller man who hastened to give him a hand.

Behind the heavy dresser, against the stone wall, was a large wooden panel. John made it fall to the floor and Anders’ eyes widened as it revealed the narrow entrance of a tunnel. One person could get in if they walked on all fours. Anders crouched and scrutinized the unfathomable darkness in front of him. "Where does it lead?" he asked, curious.

"Into the woods near the river."

"Who knows about this exit?"

"As far as I know: my mother and I…. and now you."

Anders stood up slowly and looked at his husband. "And why show it to me now?" he questioned cautiously.

John sighed. He took a step closer to cradle the blond's face in his hands and urge him to look into his eyes. "Listen, my love, if things get really bad - if I'm not here to protect you and the castle- if all hope is lost: take my mother and Annie with you, take all the women and children you can, bring them here and take the safe way out," he conjured his lover, taking Anders' hand and putting the key into his palm.  

The smaller man felt his heart pounding hard in his chest at the scary prospect. "That doesn't reassure me at all, John."

"I'm sorry," the brunet apologized, caressing his spouse's face. "You won't need it, the spirits will protect us. Nothing bad will happen; I promise… it's just in case."

"That's fine," the older man said, trying not to look like a coward in his lord's eyes. "Who knows? I might need it to escape from Annie's capillary experimentations," he chuckled.

John let out a little laugh in response.

A long silence followed and the warrior looked at his beloved consort with a fond expression. "I'm going to miss you terribly," he whispered.  

"Then you know the solution. Bring me with you."

"You know I shouldn't… you know I can't" the lord suspired, resting his forehead on his lover's.

"I know all that," Anders replied. _"But knowing doesn't mean obeying,"_ he added in his mind as he slipped a hand behind John's neck to pull him down into a kiss.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the ride. Leave me your thoughts. :) 
> 
> stay awesome, folks


	3. Lord Mitchell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody: "Anders, no"  
> Anders: "Anders yes"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, one million thanks and hugs to Katyushha for the cheering, the translation and the corrections and to Dragon4488 for the purely stunning drawing. Much love, girls.

"Why don't you take the one with the long arms and the nose like an eggplant?" Anders asked, making a vague chin gesture toward the young soldiers gathered in front of him and his husband.

John's eyes searched in the group of recruits until he found the one his husband suggested. "Oh Anders, don't be so mean to the poor kid," he scolded.

"Well, it must the sad truth since you spotted right away the one I was speaking about," Anders pointed out.

The Great Lord's throne and his consort's chair had been moved from the council hall to a platform in the great hall. Tonight was the banquet during which John was to choose the one of the recruits who would be his personal squire for the military campaign. The central area of the hall had been cleared to leave space for a plangaid còmrag. The soldiers were fighting in duel to show the lord their combat skills. George and the herald supervised the process and John would announce his pick at the end of the evening.

"Why are you suggesting this one?" John inquired.  

"Because he is the ugliest of the lot," the blond casually replied.

John raised an eyebrow for only comment.

"I'm protecting my interests; that's all," Anders explained when he saw his spouse's expression. "They seem a bit too eager to get this job for my liking," he added, examining the young recruits: boys and young men from the age of sixteen to twenty, fighting like roosters. They all tried to impress their liege in order to become the chosen one.  

"Well, squire of the Great Lord is indeed a prestigious title," the brunet pointed out, being oblivious or choosing to ignore the less-than-subtle jealousy motivating Anders' behavior.  

The aklànder scanned the aspirant warriors again. Most of them ogled the servant wenches who brought food and drinks to their masters' table, but a good number of the recruits lifted an expectant gaze to their lord's throne. "Nah, look at them," Anders argued. "They’re hoping to have their cherry popped with you. We all know the stories of what happens between the warriors and their squires."

"You shouldn’t read so many erotic novels. You are clearly imagining things," John said with a dismissive gesture as he reached for the carafe of wine. "They're there because they want to prove their valor, not to fight their way into my bed."

"You're so naive sometimes, it's almost endearing," Anders sighed with a hint of fondness before shoving a piece of carrot into his mouth.

"Don't worry," John reassured him, covering the smaller man's hand with his own on the armrest and brushing the tattoo inside the wrist with the pad of his thumb. "None of them is my sassy husband. Only a single man matches this important criterion that gives the exclusive access to my bed. I love no one but you."

Anders was always embarrassed when his husband got all sentimental, especially in public. Not that he minded feeling loved. It was flattering in a way, but he would never allow himself to act the same, and moreover, Anders never knew exactly how or what to reply to John's vows of eternal love. He chose to change subject. "Do you have an idea about who you're going to select yet?"

"Yes,” John asserted. “In fact I’ve already made my choice, and it is motivated by nepotism, I'm afraid. I chose Ruaidhri Ualan: the youngest son of my father's former squire."

"Which one is it?" Anders immediately inquired.

"He's fighting on the plangaid right now. He's the one with the grey armor."

The consort's eyes shifted to the duel going on in the middle of the room. Ruaidhri seemed to be somewhere between eighteen and twenty: tall, with shoulder-length black curls and doe eyes- a young shapely thing of an insolent beauty. Anders decided he hated the kid.

 

***

 _There are goats missing_ , he realized.

"There are goats missing," Anders repeated out loud.  

"Sorry, You Grace?"

"There were eighteen goats in that pen five minutes ago, now there are ten of them," the consort specified, pointing with the tip of his feather pen at the small enclosure where the black and white goats tried to graze anything they could reach from inside.   

"It's because Kieran already started bringing them to the enclosure outside the main gate, Your Grace," the stable boy explained.

"Death spirit!" Anders cursed. "I told you not to move them until I was finished counting the sheep and the donkeys as well. How is it difficult to understand!?" he fumed, getting edgier with every second that passed. Apparently, the five minutes he had left were five minutes too many and it gave all the time the servants needed to drivel. Now he had to count all the livestock all over again.

Food for a military campaign was a matter that could make the difference between victory and loss. John had confided the task to stock-take the supplies to his consort, who was doing his best, but the servants were not helpful at all and Anders was quickly losing the little patience he already had.

He proceeded to recount the chickens in the cages, just to be sure. " _Twenty, Twenty-one, Twenty-two…_ "

"Your Grace," another servant interrupted him. "The army from Eelry just arrived and they are wondering where they should put their horses."  

"Certainly not in my arse!" Anders snapped, on the verge of losing it for good. The servant looked rightly horrified, but he still stood there, waiting for an answer. The consort rubbed his face, forcing himself to reply with all the calmness and politeness he could muster in these times of great stress. "I think there is some place under the west guard tower."

"Thank you, Your Grace," the servant replied, bowing down and taking his leave as fast as possible.

When Anders turned around, the stable boy had opened the goat pen and was busy leading two of the animals outside.  

"NO!!! I just told you not to move the livestock until I'm done counting!!!" Anders bellowed. "You're completely stupid or what!?"

"Sorry, Your Grace," the young man apologized, pushing the goats back into the pen.  

" _I'm never going to be able to do it_ ," Anders despaired. He wasn't thinking only about the counting of the supplies, but also about taking care of the castle and the lands during John's absence. His husband would surely come back to find half of his servants' heads on pikes at the top of the city walls. Not that Anders was actually violent and wanted them dead, but right now, he felt rather incompetent at taking things in hand. Somehow, risking his life on a battlefield seemed more appealing right now than act as a landowner and a castle master. That's why he had to put his plan into execution as soon as possible. The army would be leaving tomorrow morning and he didn't have much time.  

A large hand squeezed the consort's shoulder. It could have made him jump, but the feeling was familiar. "Is everything alright here?" John worried. "I heard you yelling from the other side of the stables."

"I wasn't yelling," Anders protested, leaning into the comforting touch. "I was… expressing my discontent in a loud voice."

"Where should I put this sack of grain, Your Grace?" was the question of a manservant, stopping in front of his masters with a heavy bag on his shoulder.

"With its other little friends," Anders sighed, pointing at a cart already half-full of grain sacks. It wasn’t like it was easy to miss.

"Oh. Fine. I'll do that, Your Grace."

"Yeah, just do that," the consort groaned, "dim-wit," he added in a low voice.  "I swear that if one more person pronounces the words 'Your Grace', I'm doing a mass murder," Anders confided to his husband once the servant was gone.  

"Don't worry about that, soon enough they'll start to call you 'Your Rudeness'," John teased.

"Oh that's immensely funny and very helpful," Anders grunted, turning around to face his lord, but his amused expression betrayed him.

"It is helpful, since I made you smile," the brunet said, giving his consort a gentle kiss. Anders melted in it more than he would admit. And unconsciously, he pursed his lips a little, trying to keep John's mouth on his.

"Your Highness, the governor of Eelry wants to speak to you," Ruaidhri called his lord. Since the moment he had been designated as squire to the Great Lord, the black-haired boy was following his master everywhere like a lapdog.

John had the reflex to pull away from his husband, but Anders grabbed the back of his neck to extend the duration of the kiss for a few more seconds, just so the squire would have to wait and watch them.  

"You're doing great. Keep on the good work," John said softly with a last kiss to his husband's cheek, "and be patient with the servants: remember that they can't read your mind."  

When the lord had his back turned on him, Anders gave the squire a look of disdain which was returned with equal scorn.   

Once they were gone, the consort looked down at the scribblings on his notepad and sighed. George had the bad luck to pass by a minute later and Anders saw it as a providential opportunity.

"George, my friend!" he hailed the chief guard," I have a favor to ask of you." He put the notepad and the feather pen into George’s hands. "I have important business to attend and I'd be very glad if you could finish counting the livestock and the sacks of grain for me. Thank you very much."

George wouldn't have any time to protest or ask questions before Anders would be out of reach and sight.

 

***

Anders felt his stomach grumble when he was welcomed into the castle's kitchen by the mouth-watering smell of stew and freshly made bread. He spotted Annie leaning over a counter and mixing ingredients in a large bowl.

"Annie, Annie, my dear Annie," Anders teased the servant, pushing himself up to sit on the counter next to her, "the first person who comes to my mind when I need a maid."

"Oh, charming," the young woman snorted. "Stop putting your dirty fingers in my cooking!" she exclaimed, battling the consort's hand away as he plucked a piece of apple from the pie resting on the wooden surface.

"Those 'dirty fingers', as you call them, belong to royalty may I remind you," Anders smirked, licking the honey and spices from his thumb.  

"I don't know which 'royalty' you're speaking about," Annie pointed out. "The North Hills didn't have a king for the last three hundred years, but perhaps you were too busy harassing poor defenseless women in Aklànd to study your history."

"Ow!" he chuckled. "I love it when you get all nasty on me. Agrrr."

She rolled her eyes. "What do you want, Anders?"

"Hm. Let's put it that way: I like John, and I partially blame it on you," he told her. "So now, you have a moral duty to help me out, because I can't let him leave, at least not without me, and I need your help," he explained with a serious expression. "I know that you're not going to like it: but what I'm about to ask implies not speaking about this conversation or about my intentions to John. Not a word."

"I'm listening," she sighed, dusting the flour from her hands on her apron.  

"First, you have to promise me that you won't tell him anything."

"I'm swearing on Ôs, my tutelary spirit."

"Fine. Listen to me. Here is what I intend to do…"

 

***

"Oh there you are!" John exclaimed, grabbing Anders' hand when he saw him walk past the door of the Great Hall.  "I searched for you everywhere."

"Sorry. Just got hungry and had a snack in the kitchens," Anders lied. Well, if he counted the piece of apple he had stolen from Annie's pie: it was only a half lie.

The blond man was led by his husband into the hall where the lord had called all the castle's servants. John cleared his throat to attract their attention and the chatter immediately died down.

"I want to have a last night of privacy with my consort and I'd like all of you to respect it," he told them. "I don't want to be disturbed unless it is a vital urgency: and by vital urgency I mean that someone is in immediate danger of dying. For everything else, ask Chief Guard Sands. I wish you all a good evening and a peaceful night."

 

***

John and Anders enjoyed a sumptuous dinner in the privacy of the council hall. Annie's pie was even tastier once baked.

They chatted of nothing and everything: as if tomorrow wasn't meant to happen.

"Will you really spend all night with me?" the blond man asked when they stepped into their bedroom later that evening. It was a two-sided question. He wanted to know if John really intended to devote his time to him, because as much as he knew his husband wished for them to have these moments of intimacy together, he also knew the lord was not really able to say no if an unexpected duty called him. There was also the fact that Anders still needed time on his own in the bedroom to prepare what he had planned for his husband tonight. And hence, he was searching for an excuse to make John leave the room for a little while.

"You'll be the sole thing on my mind all night long - on my mind and, I hope, in my arms as well," John replied, taking his bathrobe in the closet.  "But first I have to take a bath.. I will spare you the details, but I don't know how many moons will pass until I have the opportunity to take another one. Care to join me?"

"No! I… I mean… It's not that I wouldn't like it," Anders apologized, "but I have something to get done… a letter to finish writing. It can't wait." It was the second time he lied to his husband in less than a few hours. He hated that.

"Oh." John was disappointed and it showed.  

"Also, I have to feed Tio," the consort added. "You know her: she will yelp all evening if I don't do it now." This was the truth. If he didn't give the baby fox her milk and all the cuddles she needed now, she would whine for food, and then for attention, and then for food again in an endless loop until late in the night.

"I hope you'll have enough time to sort it all out before I come back."

"I will, don't worry," Anders smiled. "And then I'll be all yours."

"I'm counting on it," John smiled back, and he left by the still opened door, whistling a melody the blond man had never heard before.

The first thing he did once his husband was gone was to crouch next to the bed to catch his pet. He sat in the armchair and settled the vixen on his lap. She now accepted to eat little pieces of raw meat, but still preferred suckling milk on the linen fabric, and Anders had discovered it was the best way to make her sleep. As expected, she started to yawn and her eyelids to close as soon as Anders put the bowl and the piece of fabric away. She was going to wake up in a few hours, but Anders would have a bit of quiet time with his husband until his parental duties called him again with high-pitched and insistent yelping. Tiolam rolled on her back and the consort petted and scratched her well-fed little belly until she was completely limp and asleep. "I'm going to miss you, little imp," he told the cub fondly as he carried her to her box.

The soft knock on the bedroom door happened just at the right moment.

"He's still in his bath," Annie informed the consort as soon as he opened the door.

"Perfect," he said, taking the basket the maid carried and inspecting the content to be sure that all he had asked was in it. Satisfied, he thanked the young woman.

"About tomorrow…" Annie began, "are you still sure you really want to do that?"

"Yes." Anders replied, holding her gaze. "Do you have doubts? You don't want to help me anymore?"

"I said I would help you, so I will. I'm just not sure if it is the right way to show your loyalty toward John," she remarked, but she didn't explain her reasons for affirming such a thing.  

"I'm still determined to do it," Anders insisted.  

She stayed silent for a few seconds, looking at the floor. "Then nobody can blame me for not having tried to make you change your mind," she mused. "Good night," she added before disappearing in the corridor.

Once the door shut, Anders immediately focused on the task at hand. He couldn't let the maid's hesitation shake him. He had to make John think that tonight was their last night together: and truth be said, if what Anders had planned for tomorrow morning fell overboard, there was still a chance that this was indeed their last night together.

The Aklànder had to search inside John's messy closet for ten minutes before finding what he was seeking: a leather pouch containing seventeen red ribbons. These were the ones tying their wrists together when they had pronounced their wedding vows at Somerled temple.

Carefully, he took the fragile bunches of dried mint and yarrow Annie bought at Master Sìleas' shop and tied them on the bedposts with the ribbons. Decorating the conjugal bed with the ribbons was normally something the new couple did on the wedding night, but since their wedding night hadn't really gone as expected, the ribbons stayed hidden in John's closet since the ceremony.

Anders felt that tonight was a good time to make up for it. Their actual wedding night came close to provoke a diplomatic disaster and Anders still felt guilty for it. He had been a real dick, accusing John of being a rapist while it was nothing but cowardice on Anders' part. He had been too afraid of letting his husband have him: too afraid to acknowledge that he did want his hands on him - too terrified to see that deep inside, he was craving for it. John had left the castle, leaving Anders alone in the bed they should have shared for the first time. All night long the blond man had tossed and turned: trying to erase from his mind the words his new husband had whispered into the crook of his bare neck: "there are so many things I want to do to you." Anders had reacted violently to those words, like stung by a bee -- not because they were threatening or too forward, but because Anders couldn't admit to anybody, and especially not to himself, that he would have let John do so many things that night.

And tonight, Anders would let his lord do everything he wanted to him, because he wasn't afraid anymore.

"Anders…," an astonished voice exclaimed behind the consort's back as the blond man was busy tying the last red ribbon. He hadn’t heard John enter the room, but it was not surprising since the taller man had the subtlety of a feline when it came to moving from one room to another.  

"We should have done it long ago," Anders replied in a calm voice, turning around to look at his husband.

"That's true, but since we didn't share this bed as lovers for a long time, I kind of forgot about it," John admitted.  

The black belt of the wine red bathrobe enhanced John’s slender waist in an admirable way. His dark hair was still heavy with water.  For a long time, during his youth, Anders had wondered how he would be able to do his marital duty – how he would probably feel dirty and stained if he let his monster of a husband have his way with him. Now he pondered how he would be able to cope without John's touch. It was as addictive as the herbs the mountain shepherds smoked.

"I didn't forget," Anders murmured, walking to the wall candlestick in order to make a bit more light in the room. When you had an exquisite-looking husband just coming out of his bath, it was logical to make light to see him better. "I knew it was important for you and since I finally decided to 'pull my head out of my arse' like Annie says, I thought it would be a nice thing to do."

"You did that all on your own?" the brunet asked, touching one of the yarrow bunch that instantly gave out its aphrodisiac aroma in the room.  

"I asked Annie to buy the herbs, but it was my initiative."

"It's a very nice – very sweet thing to do: thinking of our wedding bonds and preparing this for me,"  John purred, walking up to his husband and touching his cheek with the back of a hand: warm and still moist with the bath's water. "If I didn't know you better, I'd be tempted to say that you tried to be romantic."

"Oh shut up," Anders retorted, pulling a face, "don't embarrass me in front of myself."  

"Yes," John chuckled, "I think that the only one who's embarrassed here is you."

Anders parted from the other man to go to the table where the basket waited; still containing a bottle of honeyed cider. He filled the goblet Ty had given them as a birthweek present with the sweet beverage and gave it to the brunet. The lord cupped it with both hands, careful not to spill its content. Anders put his own hands above John's and guided the edge of the cup to his husband's lips.  

"To us," John breathed before he took a long gulp.  

"To us," Anders echoed, with a swell of pride. The idea that there was an “us” that implied him and the Great Lord made him feel invincible. "And to your victory over the nomads," he added before pulling the goblet to himself and taking a sip as well.  The aklànder licked his lips. John's eyes followed the move of his tongue, mimicking it unconsciously.

"I didn't know if there was a kind of ritual I should have performed while tying the ribbons," the blond man said, gesturing toward the bed. "I'm not really aware of Brastàl's customs and about religious matters in general," he added as he put the goblet back on the table.

"There is indeed a ritual that must be done," John stated with a solemn voice, stepping forward to take the smaller man into his arms.   

"What is it?" Anders asked, curious.

The dark-haired man leant forward to whisper in his ear: "One of the spouses must tie up the other to the bedpost with the ribbons and take pleasure from his restrained husband or wife until complete exhaustion… and as your lord, it would be my prerogative to tie you up for my enjoyment."

At those words, a strange shiver went down Anders' spine. It took him a few seconds, as the heat crawled to his face, to realize that it was a shudder of sheer arousal. The proud Sir Anders, who always wanted to have control in everything, how could he be so turned on by the idea of being at his husband's mercy: naked and vulnerable? He gulped and searched John's eyes, trying to conceal the hard-on coming to life under his kilt.  

"I'm kidding, Anders," the lord said in a chuckle.

"Oh…" the blond man breathed, feeling an odd mix of relief and disappointment.

"You should have seen your face, my poor darling," John sniggered. "I'm so sorry. It was a cruel joke."

"That's fine… I…" the blond man stammered, fighting back a wild blush.

John's eyes widened when he understood. "Wait a minute… you actually liked it, did you?"

"No!” the aklànder protested. “Er… I mean…."

"Oh yes! You loved that idea… don't deny it, I see it in your eyes…" the brunet teased, placing a hand on the nape of Anders' neck to bring him even closer. John’s husky voice was betraying the fact that Anders' arousal awoke his own instincts.

Anders opened his mouth to defend himself, in a useless attempt to save his pride, but he was silenced by a profound kiss that annihilated all coherent thoughts from his mind.  

"I want to have you, lover," John panted when they parted. "Do you give your consent?"

"I'm yours, my lord," Anders agreed.  "But would you undress for me first?"

"As long as you do the same."  

They both took three steps back, eyes not leaving the other. Anders tossed his shirt away and as he undid his belt and unfolded his kilt, he watched John's bathrobe fall to the floor, revealing a healthy and strong body. Everything about John was erotic, from his slow, heavy breathing, to the confident posture of his shoulders and the pace of his walk as he crossed the few steps separating them.

Anders ached to touch the muscular arms and let his fingers travel through the dark chest hair. He already imagined himself grazing the enticing trail of hair down the hard stomach and then lower, between the toned thighs several years of horse riding had sculpted."I'm pretty sure half of the country would like to be at my place right now," Anders marveled.   

"And yet I'm the luckiest man," the young lord corrected,  placing his hands each sides of his spouse's rib cage and very slowly, letting them trace down the curve of his waist to his hips. Their noses bumped on each other's when Anders searched the contact of his husband's body on his, but they didn't kiss yet. They only let their warm breaths leave their parted lips and mix in the space between them.

"The first second I laid my eyes on you in the courtyard I already wanted to bed you,” John whispered in a hoarse tone, staring down at Anders’ parted lips. “I wanted to know everything about you. I wanted see everything of you, and kiss, lick, touch everything. And you knew it. You knew how much I was yearning for you. And still: you let me chase you."

The words felt to Anders like they were rolling down along his spine. They finished their race in his lower stomach, filling it with warmth and lust. The desire contained in every word was chaining Anders’ body to his husband’s and he didn’t want to be freed until he would be completely consumed by their heat.

"You love the fact you didn't have me easily," Anders pointed out, placing a hand on the curve of the small of John’s back. "I'm another of your victories."

"And yet I've never been more afraid to lose a battle in my whole life," the younger man confessed, "but now that you're mine…" He paused to place four open-mouthed kiss along Anders neck, from the shoulder up to his ear. "Now that you're mine…," he repeated in a barely audible whisper, leaving his sentence suspended again. There was no need for words to complete it. It only needed a long night of intimacy. The brunet's hand roamed Anders' pert buttocks and went further down to caress the little hollow at the junction between one cheek and a thigh.

Anders moaned and pushed his hips against his lover’s. His head was spinning. He wasn't sure if the fragrance of the herbs or the the sugary cider really had an effect on him, but he knew that John didn't need them to make of their bedroom a garden of earthly delights.

His lord guided Anders to their bed and laid him down in the fur pelts with feverish kisses.

John made love to him with just the right balance between roughness and tenderness: leaving Anders trembling, drained and still asking for more. The blond man tried to give back as much as he received, but he soon understood that he was the one being pampered that night, and he accepted it. Anders let his husband play with his body at will: making it tense like a bow string or malleable like hot steel under the blacksmith's hammer.

 

Later, as they were basking in the bliss of the aftermath, lying on the bed that looked like it had been the arena of a savage fight, Anders rewarded his husband with an exhausted yet contented smile.

"Perfect! Don't move," John suddenly said, propping himself on his elbow. "I think it's going to be just _that_."

"That? What?" Anders questioned.

"This is the image of you I will keep in my mind while away. When I'll think of you: this is how I will see you."

His husband had just given him a rather marvelous round of sex and Anders didn't want to spoil the moment, but he couldn't hide his annoyance. "You speak like I'm your princess, staying safe in my tower while my knight is gone fighting dragons and pissed off unicorns. You seem to have a very idealistic image of all that," he scoffed.

John shook his head with a sigh. "I don't: there is nothing romantic in the experience of war. It's death, spoiled youth, mourning, horror and suffering. There is nothing aesthetic in a gutted man, trust me," he insisted. "I know that you must feel like you are left behind, but as much as the idea of you and I fighting side by side as a team may seem appealing, I want to spare you from it if I can," he emphasized with a frown, but a moment later, his features relaxed and went back to a loving expression, full of adoration.  "I want this image of you engraved in my mind, because it will help me hold on and see some light in the darkness. Your beauty will be the rope that'll always be there to pull me out of the well.  Everyone confronted with the necessity of killing turns into an animal. I don't want you to see me like that. This, right now, is also the only image I want you to have of me," he continued, brushing the side of Anders’ neck with his fingertips.

"I'm not some kind of innocent child who has to be spared from all woe," Anders reminded him.  

"Yes, I'm afraid you are," John objected, cupping Anders' face and his gaze probing the blue one. "You are no child, but I have to keep you pure. It's the only way you can save me: from what I did- from what I'm about to do. The young men you've seen in the Great Hall at the squire's choosing: some of them will never come back from the campaign. You have to stay the way  you are just now, on this blessed instant, because your arms are my shelter from the memory of their corpses and from the tears of their mothers. You are my home, my refuge." He put a light kiss over the blond's lips before he carried on. "When I'm alone with you, I'm not a Great Lord, an army leader or a warrior: I'm a husband, a lover, and that is more precious to me than anything else. I want to keep it safe and pure: I want to keep you safe. I don't want what we have to be stained in blood." John let go of Anders' face and looked down. "I must sound very egoistic right now."

"No you don't," the aklànder reassured him, placing a hand over his husband's strong chest. Suddenly, he was the one feeling ashamed, for what he was planning to do tomorrow.  

"John?"

"Hm?"

"What you did for me on my birthweek: forgiving me for all the times I wronged you, would you do that for anybody?"

"I like to think of myself as a magnanimous man," the lord replied, carding his fingers in fair hair, "but with you: I think I would forgive you absolutely anything. I'm just that weak I'm afraid."

Anders had gotten the answer he wanted. He was glad that they fell in a comfortable silence again and that his husband hadn't wanted to know the reason behind that question.

The room was warm enough to allow them to simply lie naked without any covers. They had a fire in the hearth; they had a comfortable bed and each other. It was probably what perfect happiness must feel like, but tomorrow was like a dark cloud hanging to the bedroom ceiling above them.

Anders kissed his man on the collarbone and pressed his face to the warm flesh of a pectoral.

"When I was young and we were having classes with Master Sìleas," John began, petting the back of Anders' head, "he taught us that, at night, the soul can travel wherever it wants, no matter the distance."

"Yes. Olaf says that as well," the blond man remembered, lifting his head to answer his lord.  

"Every night, when we are both asleep, I'll come back to you," John decided, looking down at his husband with something sad at the corner of his smile.

 

***

When Anders woke up, he was alone. Well, not exactly alone since Tiolam was sprawled across his legs. He wondered for a second how she managed to climb on the bed.

He blinked a few times and realized the sun rose. A feeling of panic instantly crept to his chest. No. John wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye, would he?. No. He would never do that.

The consort jumped out of the bed, tearing a yelp of protest from the fox, disturbed in her beauty sleep. Anders didn't pay attention to her antics. He was a bit angry at John for not having woken him up. But his husband surely had good intentions by letting him sleep longer and John couldn’t know that Anders had hidden plans for his morning.

The Great Consort had to put on his best outfit for the farewell ceremony so he selected the same clothes he wore on his wedding day and tossed them on the bed. "No! Don't even think about it," he scolded Tiolam since she had decided a woolen kilt was the best place to fall back asleep. He took the fox and put her on the floor.

Fists on the hips, Anders considered his options. Put on a perfectly folded kilt by himself was not exactly an easy task. He would have to fold it on the floor and lie down to wrap it around himself, which cost him a good amount of precious minutes.

He opened the door and stepped outside of bedroom naked like on the day of his birth. Not finding anybody, he walked down the stairs. "Hey, you!," he hailed the first maid he saw on the second floor. "Come and help me!"  

"Yes, You Grace," she stuttered, her chubby cheeks turning a violent shade of pink and she followed her naked master back to his room.

Anders knew he would probably be the center of the castle's gossips for the rest of the moon, but he didn't really care about it right now. He had other priorities.

 

***

Anders found his husband in the armory. The Great Lord was sitting on a stool while his squire strapped the breastplate of the ceremonial armor in place and adjusted the gardbrace on the lord's upper arms.  The warrior was chatting quietly with the boy as Anders entered the room.  

A grin illuminated John's face when he saw his husband. "Good morning, my joy and delight."

"Good morning," Anders replied with an uptight smile. The presence of the squire made him tense and uncomfortable.

John reached for his husband, probably wanting to take his hand or draw him closer for a kiss, but as much as the Aklànder had made a point of marking his territory by kissing the lord in front of his squire the day before, now he didn't want the boy to witness their exchange of affection.

Ruaidhri gave the Great Consort an indifferent look, like Anders was not more than a dead fly on a window sill. The boy inclined his head slightly, which could probably count as a bow for someone not especially fussy with the protocol, but Anders suddenly decided he was. "Leave us," he ordered in a dry tone.  

The boy didn't move, only giving a side glance to his master, waiting for John to counteract the order.

"I said: sod off!" Anders snapped.

Ruaidhri lowered his gaze and left the room.

"I should be the one sharing your tent during the campaign, not him," Anders growled as he took on the task to help John with his armor.

"You share my bed, isn't that better?"

Anders chose not to reply, concentrating on placing the wrought bracers to John's forearm. "Tell me you won't try to fight in that armor," he added, struggling with the straps.

"No. Of course not. It's only for the farewell ceremony. From tomorrow on, I'll wear my real battle armor. Apparently I have to look fancy today."

Once Anders was done strapping all the pieces at their right place and John stood up, his helmet under his arm, the blond had to admit that his husband was indeed impressive. With the large silver and gold armor, his eyes shining with determination: he looked like one of those heroes from the ancient tales. Annie had done her magic there, tying the lord's hair in an intricate plait involving several smaller braids secured with leather laces and metal beads. As much as he admired the maid's artwork, Anders' favorite look on his husband was the hair falling freely on his shoulders in heavy curls: like on their wedding day.

"How do I look?" John inquired.

"You look stiff."

John laughed as he tried to lean down to put a peck on his husband's lips, but the stiffness of the armor made it perilous indeed. Chuckling, Anders put his hands on the padded shoulders and rose on tiptoe to plant a quick kiss to his spouse's mouth. He regretted not being able to feel his body against his anymore but just cold metal.

"I'll see you later," the brunet told him with a wink before making his way out of the armory, accompanied by the sound of metal plates clinking against each other.

 

Anders closed the door behind his husband and locked himself up in the armory. He knew he could count on the fact John was having breakfast with the cities’ governors for a few hours. It would give him enough time to complete an important part of his plan. The shelves usually containing quivers filled with arrows had been emptied. The majority of the weapons from the armory were gone. They had been distributed to Brastàl's soldiers for the campaign. It was not the quivers that interested Anders anyway, but something hidden under the shelves: a long ashtree shaft. He had cut it himself in the woods behind the archery field two days earlier and also peeled the bark from it.

He took from the bag he had carried from his bedroom the tools and objects he needed to work: a wet, solid leather lace, a serrated blade and the spearhead Mikkel had sent him for his birthweek. With the blade, he cut the tip of the wooden shaft in half, inserted the spearhead in the gap and tied it tightly with the leather lace, hurting his hands by pulling on it as hard as he could. Once it was done, the took his spear close to one of the torch burning on the wall, and, with careful experience, made the leather dry and harden next to the flame.

The next step was to make his new weapon and John's childhood armor get to the stables without alerting anybody. Fortunately, Anders had an accomplice.

He opened the armory's window and threw the armor and the spear outside. They would fall in the garden's bushes and stay hidden there until Annie collected them.

By the time he was finished with his weapon fabrication, John was still in the council hall and Anders understood he was not needed. The Great Lord had people of importance to speak with, and Anders was not one of them. He left his spouse in the company of his power brokers and ate his breakfast in his bedroom with Tiolam. " _You wedded a war lord, not a carpenter_ ," he reminded himself, playing with the food on his plate without appetite. Anders knew he was being unjust and that John was only doing his duty, but by opening to his husband, he had also opened the door to other kind of insecurities - feeling neglected was one of them.

Anders put on his silver torc, his cloak and his blue fingerless gloves. He looked outside the window at the dark clouds gathering above Brastàl. The change in the weather announced a snow fall without a doubt.

A knock on the doorframe and a soft voice put an abrupt end to his contemplation." It's time," Lady Mitchell told her son-in-law.

"Yes." Anders forced a smile.

He caught his fox on the bed and put her in the arms of Annie, who was following her lady.

"I collected the goods in the garden. They are in the stables as you asked," the maid informed Anders in a whisper as they went down the staircase.

They were welcomed outside by bagpipes and drums playing a military march and Anders' heart started drumming at the same rapid rhythm.

"His Grace Anders Johnson-Mitchell and Lady Ann Douglas-Mitchell," the herald announced.

Anders didn't pay attention to the people bowing down before him. His gaze was searching for a tall brunet in a fancy armor. This felt like the first time he had entered the courtyard of Brastàl castle to meet his future husband. The same apprehension and sickening feeling: though, this time, the reasons were entirely different.

Anders knew all the stares were on him. They were all trying to guess how he felt about being separated from his young husband. He pulled his hood up to hide his face. He would not indulge the courtiers' voyeurism.

John finally appeared in the courtyard, leading Pessa by the bridle: followed closely by Ruaìdhri and the chief of the guards. People assembled in the courtyard bowed at the Great Lord's passage. George and the squire were respectful enough to stay back  with the mare as John was saying his goodbyes to his family.

The lord hugged Annie and cooed over the baby fox, petting her a last time. Then, he kissed his mother, who was standing just next to Anders.

"Be careful, my son," the blond man heard her advise him," you are my only child and now you have a husband as well."

"I will be careful, mother," John replied, "for yours and Anders' sake."

The Great Lord had kept his consort for the end, as the tradition required. "So that's it, then: you're leaving," Anders stated, kicking imaginary dirt with his boot when John stepped in front of him.  

"Yes, _a ghraìd_ ," John replied, serious. Anders avoided the lord's gaze, but the taller man caught his chin with his hand.  "Hey…" he breathed in a soothing voice, searching for Anders' eyes with a warm, reassuring smile. "I know this is difficult for you, but I'm sure you won't even have the time to miss me. I'll be back between the coltsfoots’ and the daffodils' blooming. I have to be here before the spring gathering after all, since we have to attend your brother's premarital trials. "

Anders nodded, but found himself unable to speak.

The bagpipe started playing again, reminding Anders that they weren’t alone and that he had a ceremony to accomplish. John kneeled on the ground in front of his husband and took off his gloves to present him the palms of his bare hands.

A servant brought Anders a charcoal pen. The consort took it and he draw on each of John's hands the symbols of the spirits he had chosen to protect John during the military campaign. Several spirits would have been good choices: Väm, for being a war spirit and being John's tutelary spirit. He could have chosen Odnì, the spirit of strength or Talì, the spirit of steel. Instead, he had chosen Eri and Ôs.

The music of the bagpipe ceased when Anders put the charcoal pen back in the servant's hands.

"May the spirit of fire guide your way by its light and the spirit of the home bring you back to your loved ones," he declared in a loud voice. The people of high ranks gathered in the courtyard clapped politely as Anders helped his husband back on his feet.

When John stood, he plunged his hands into Anders' hood to cup his face and he pressed a light, chaste kiss to his mouth. He pulled back to look into the blond man's eyes again, as if memorizing their color. Then he pushed Anders' hood off and dragged him into a passionate kiss that deepened too much for it to be decent anymore. John's hands would probably smear charcoal on his face but the aklànder didn’t care, completely lost in the sensation.  

They parted with reluctance and the brunet rested his forehead to the blond’s.

"I love you," John said, eyes shut, his voice somewhat shaky and his lips still close to Anders'.

"Be careful," Anders replied like a confession, only for his husband to hear.

"Goodbye, my fox," John murmured with a last, fleeting caress the dimpled cheek.  

"Goodbye, my husband," Anders whispered back, covering John's hand with his gloved one for a brief moment.

The rest happened in the blink of an eye. The Great Lord broke their embrace and the squire helped John climb on his mare as the other governors and guards imitated him. John cast a last look at his husband as his mare trotted through the main gate.

Just after he had lost sight of his spouse, Anders heard the cheering of the crowd massed outside the city wall to see the army leave.

The consort pretended to go back to the castle right away, but as soon as he was inside, he took the corridor leading to the garden's door. He had to be in front of Ornàn's box ten minutes later, where Annie agreed on meeting him.

He paced on the garden's gravel path for the next minutes and took the direction of the stables.

He heaved a sigh of relief to see that the curly-haired woman had kept her promise and was there, waiting for him. As soon as the consort arrived, Annie unearthed the armor and the spear she had hidden under a heap of hay.  Anders hastened to get rid of his cloak and coat.

"Who is going to rule on the Mitchells' lands after you left?" the maid asked as she helped Anders put on the armor. Clearly, she was still hostile toward Anders' decision to follow the army.

"Lady Ann did it for thirty years. She is more apt to perform this task than I will ever be."

"John won't be happy…" Annie pointed out, her voice trailing off, like she was aching to say something more.

"I know. I can survive his anger."

"It's not his anger you should fear."

Anders turned a deaf ear to her warnings, more concentrated on finishing strapping his armor and keeping an eye on his fox so she wouldn't run away. He still had to saddle his horse and he had little space in his mind for last minute hesitations.

When he finally led Ornàn out of the stables, he gave Tiolam a last scratching and thanked the maid who was holding the fox in her arms.

"Good luck," she wished him, handing him his spear.  

Without a look back, with his weapon tucked under his arm, Anders pressed his heel to the white horse's flanks and crossed the main gate. He rode in the same direction the army had taken and it took him less than ten minutes to catch the end of the long row of soldiers marching on the rocky road. He ignored the funny looks they gave him and he kept on riding. This is one of the reasons he had not tried to hide among them. It would have taken them less than fifteen minutes to notice he was not one of them. Besides, his place was at the head of the army, among the men of high rank. He wouldn’t stoop as low as pretending to be a simple soldier.  

He didn't have a precise idea of what he would say to his spouse once there. Maybe something like _"My decision is taken. I'm coming with you. We're married and I belong by your side."_

He galloped until he reached the front where he knew his husband was. "John!" he hailed his spouse to catch his attention as he slowed Ornàn down.

John turned his head in the blond man's direction. He lifted a hand and the army stopped, following his silent order in a collective clinking of shields, armors and weapons.

The brunet removed his helmet. "What are you doing here?" he scowled.

That wasn’t a good start for Anders’ heroic entree. He didn't answer right away: because there were a few sneers among the soldiers.

In any circumstances, John would defend him, but this time, he stayed quiet; frowning and waiting for his consort to give him an answer.

John had kept the promise made before their wedding: every time they were behind closed doors, the lord had treated his spouse as his equal in every respect, and maybe Anders had gotten a bit too used to that privilege. He had forgotten that in fact, he wasn't John's equal, and would never be. His husband's loving treatment had made him overlook his right place in the hierarchy.

They were all judging him now: the governors and the soldiers. Not for having taken the arms: it wasn't of any importance. It didn't matter to anybody if Anders was skilled at fighting and had read all the military treaties contained in the castle's library:  the real issue at hand was that he had disobeyed his liege. Some of them were probably now judging John as well, even laughing at him for not being able to impose his will on his own consort. Even George was shaking his head in silent disapproval.

Anders realized that he was making his husband appear weak in front of his men - the men he was leading to war. Never, for one a second, had Anders considered this possibility. He had only thought of his own desires: his need to stay with his lover. Once again: the only thing he had managed to prove was his selfishness and his total disregard for consequences.

"My lord, we don't have time for _this_ ," the governor of Longdale conjured the Great Lord.

Anders burnt under their stares of reprobation, knowing that _'this'_ was meant to designate the fact that John had now to lose precious time dealing with his childish behavior. To them, Anders was acting like a spoiled brat that his husband should send back to the castle with a good spanking to teach him respect. John didn’t try to contradict the governor. Why would he? After all, his consort had consciously plotted to pull a stunt that ridiculed him.  

Anders started to understand the real extent of his mistake. He searched his lover's gaze.

John didn't seem angry. It was even worse than that. It was disappointment that the Aklànder saw in those hazel eyes.

He should have listened to Annie. She knew John and the ways of the Great Lord’s court better than he did after all. She had been right all along. Making John angry: that was something Anders could live with. But disappoint him and undermine his reputation - that was another game entirely.

"I don't think you fully measure the consequences of what you're doing, Anders," John said, jumping down his horse. For the first time, Anders hated the way his husband said his name. It was not even scolding; it was cold and authoritarian.

The aklànder had put himself into that situation: it was now up to him to pull himself out. Fortunately, he had a plan B. He had little illusions about the chances of success of this plan, though. Being there, dressed with an armor and holding a spear in his hand, he knew he would not be able to fool anybody on the real intentions that had pushed him to come here. Anders cleared his throat as he slipped down his saddle as well. "I forgot to give you something before you left."

"What is it?" John asked giving his helmet to his squire and walking up to the aklànder, his expression stern.

Anders took an object from his purse and reached to give it to John. The lord didn't move, just staring at the outstretched hand. “What is it?” he repeated. 

"Just take it and leave, please," Anders whispered pressing it into the brunet's hand.

John looked at the small oval locket as it lay on the middle of his palm, Anders opened the wooden lid to show him the miniature portrait inside. "It's a portrait of me: like you wanted," he explained. "I know it was the reason why you wanted to have our portraits done, so you could have one of me to bring with you. I already had this old one. I thought you’d like to have it."

The brunet stared down at the tiny representation of a younger Anders, the hard frown not leaving his face.

"I'm sorry I forgot to give it to you earlier. The ceremony got me so emotional I completely forgot it was in my pocket," Anders lied.  The portrait was already a few years old and he had brought it from Aklànd with his other belongings. One day, when he was John's age, Anders was attending a competition of caber toss with his brothers and he made a bet with a stranger man. He had won and the man declared afterward that he couldn't pay Anders, but since he was a painter, he had offered to make a miniature of the young man as a payment.

 

 

 

 

John closed his fist around the portrait. "Thank you," he simply said, but his tone lacked the affection with which he usually spoke to his beloved. "You should go back to the castle now. My lady mother must be worried."

The message behind those words was quite clear and Anders gulped. "Yeg protect the road you walk, my lord," Anders blessed him, bowing down as the squire helped John climb back on his horse.

"Stay safe," were the last words John said to him, in a neutral voice that barely hid the sadness that came with them. He pushed his horse to walk forward and all the army started to march again. He didn’t look back at Anders even once.

Anders didn't wish to stay there and endure the soldiers' reproving, pitiful or mocking looks any longer. He climbed back on his horse. He made Ornàn turn around and gallop back in the direction of the castle.

 

Annie was still in the courtyard with Tiolam in her arms when the guards let Anders come back in. As Ornàn walked across the courtyard and to the stables, Anders' gaze met the maid's and he knew he wouldn't even have to explain what happened. She had tried to warn him: he hadn't listened. This was just another knife he had stuck in his own back.

Anders hastened to remove the saddle and the reins from his stallion and once he was done, he went back into the castle and ran up the staircase to the highest point of the castle. He was outside only a few minutes ago, but the wind still hit him like a slap in the face when he opened the door leading to the donjon tower's rooftop.

He could still see the army, like a black worm squirming along the road far away. He rested his gloved hands on the icy stones of the wall. The moist in his throat and the tingle at the corner of his eyes told him that tears were close. He never allowed himself to cry, and he wouldn't make an exception today. Once again, he had nobody to blame for his pain but himself. Not only was he separated from the only person who ever truly loved him, but he had also spoiled their last moments together. It was probably meant to happen anyway, one day or another.

"Lord Mitchell?" asked a voice behind his back.

Anders didn't turn around, even if he knew the herald was speaking to him. John was still the Great Lord of the North Hills, but Anders was now the lord of Brastàl: a title he didn't want and one he surely didn't deserve.

"I'll be there in a minute," he replied in a tired voice and he heard the door shutting behind his back.

  
Anders stood on the top of the tower, looking at the army disappearing little by little between the hills. Heavy snowflakes started falling from the winter sky. Some of them ending their slow aerial dance on Anders' shoulders, but the blond man didn't notice them. All he noticed was the cold and the fact there was nobody there to lend him a coat anymore.

 

 

 


	4. Flying Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longing for someone was not something that could happen to Anders Johnson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ADDITIONAL WARNING: mention of past underage 
> 
> My eternal gratitude to the two persons who help me and make this story a great experience: to Katyushha for all her sleepless nights of translating and betaing and to Dragon4488 who pour her talent into this universe.

 

"Come here, you bloody bird!" Anders pestered the pigeon, reaching a hand through the opening of the cage. He had taken care of closing the other side of this section of the pigeon loft, so the bird was trapped there with a dozen of its congeners and couldn't escape outside. Anders still had to catch the one of the pigeons that had a small cylinder tied to its leg.

It was a good thing he had left Tiolam in the bedroom. For the young fox, every pigeon was a potential snack or some toy to chew on.

"If you don't cooperate, I ask a servant to pluck you and I eat you for supper," Anders warned the bird, trying to corner it. The pigeon seemed insensible to the threat, sidestepping the man's attempt to catch it. Anders cussed and launched again at his quarry. This time, he succeeded in seizing the bird's back to maintain its wings trapped in his hand and keep it still without harming it. Gently, he undid the brass clip around the tiny leg.

"See? It wasn't that complicated," Anders told the bird, freeing it back inside the cage. "Now you can go back to whatever pigeon business you were up to."

The consort immediately uncapped the cylinder and took three small paper rolls out of it.

Anders came to the pigeon loft every day since John had left Brastàl six days earlier. The couple had not parted on good terms after Anders tried to follow the army against John' will.  To be honest, the consort hadn't expected news anytime soon. He was dreading the fact his husband would renounce writing to him – too humiliated and angry. Hope had still driven his steps to the pigeon loft every morning and back to the castle without any message, until today he noticed that one bird that was carrying something. Pigeons were not the most reliable communication system, but surely the cheapest and if they were not eaten by predators on their way, they were surprisingly fast. They never got lost and no matter what, they would always return where they were born.  

On the paper rolls, Anders recognized his husband's loopy handwriting. The first one was addressed to Lady Ann Mitchell – Bràstal Castle.  The second one was for Anna (Annie) Sawyer, and the blond man had to smile when he read what was written on the third one: Lord Anders Mitchell- Bràstal Castle (No, Annie. You are not allowed to read this one).  Anders put the letters for the maid and John's mother carefully in the pouch on his belt. He would deliver them himself.  

He opened the loft's door, it was quite dark inside and it would be better to read outside. He could have waited to read in the comfort of his room, but his screaming curiosity needed to be satisfied, not without a hint of anxiousness. He sat on the stairs outside, on the fresh layer of snow only his boot steps had marred.

He unrolled the parchment. The writing was small and packed- not a single blank space had been wasted. His husband indeed had to write a lot on a small piece of paper- there was a limit to the weight a pigeon could carry. Anders felt his heart thumping louder from a mix of excitement and apprehension as he read the first words.

 

 

_Bailtean, last day of the week of Rêt, first year of the 11th Great Lord_

_My dear Anders,_

_We arrived in Bailtean this afternoon. With the men from here, my troops are now completed. Tomorrow at dawn we are going to cross the Quigley river and head south to Weensham, and then to Fergus.  After that, we are going to take the road to the West, to Archerwall.  If you want to reply to this letter, you better send it directly to Archerwall._

_I take this opportunity of the last night in a real bedroom to write to you. I have your locket opened on the table next to me. I keep the strand of hair you gave me inside it. You seem so young in that painting. How old were you: seventeen, eighteen? You still have the same captivating eyes and perfect skin you had back then._

_They gave me the best room of the city hall and I think that it's even more luxurious than our own bedroom, but there is something missing here and my heart feels empty. I thought of you as we were on the road. You accompanied me all the way from Brastàl to Bailtean._

_I hate the way we parted. I wish you didn't do what you did. I wish you understood and didn't force me to be cold to you._

_You've been quite bold and cheeky and I knew I had to scold you for disobeying me, but I took no pleasure from it. Truth is, I thought you were rather attractive on your horse with my old armor and your spear.  You really looked like a warrior. But it didn't matter to anybody else but me what you looked like. The people who were there and witnessed that scene are soldiers- they were trained to know their place and to stay where they belong. Self-will is not a quality for a soldier. Straying from the ranks means death and defeat. And that's what you did on the day of my departure- you strayed from your rank. They saw you as a dangerous element and they saw me as a bad leader._

_Being a Great Lord is an irksome task most of the time, and there are circumstances in which it is only about showing that I have bigger balls than anybody around, even my own husband (please pardon my turn of phrase). I know you didn't mean to be disrespectful to me. But it's still how everybody considered what you did – as a lack of respect to who I am. And that's what they think now: "why should we respect him if even his spouse doesn't?"_

_But you figured out all this already, I'm sure of it._

_It seems that I tamed my wild little fox enough so he accepts to be petted, but I can't command him. And everybody expects me to have an obedient husband who keeps my bed and my house warm while I'm away and makes a pretty decoration at my side in official ceremonies. I know it's not what you want to be. My beautiful fox will always be wild. But there are times in life when we have to pretend we understand the rules of the world in order to be left in peace. I know that you are a clever, smart Great Consort, but now, I'm afraid you have to learn to be a wise and quiet one.  I know you are pulling a face, reading those lines now. I can almost see it as I write. You must think I'm incredibly patronizing and you are probably right, but I'm afraid I can't change how things work. We are the highest peak of hierarchy and, as such, probably the ones whose behavior is the most regimented by traditions and standards. I'll discipline you if I have no other choice. But please, Anders, don't make me. I'd hate that._

_I realized lately that we are going to be separated longer than we've been together as lovers. There is a possibility that, as the weeks go by, you start feeling like what we had was nothing but a short infatuation. This makes me scared: I have to confess. The way we parted probably makes it all more possible. I don't want to be just another one of the liaisons you had in your life.  The first thing I wish to do once I'm back in Brastàl is to make love to you: and it would kill my heart if you refused yourself to me. I said I could forgive you anything: and I truly forgive you for what happened on the road, but tell me you will still hold me in the same regards in the spring. I know I'm a hopeless, smitten man, but say that you will kiss me with the same passion you did on our last night once we are reunited. I would not survive if your feelings toward me changed and diminished while we are parted. Just know that mine won’t._

_Your devoted husband_

_John J. A. D. Mitchell_

_P.S. Don't forget to give Annie her birthweek present for me._

 

 

 

Anders read the letter two times and placed it in the pocket inside his coat. He was relieved to know John forgave him, but it didn't erase the bitterness of their separation. The Great Lord seemed stressed, the tone of his letter made it obvious. He was afraid of losing Anders, and in all honesty, the Aklànder was afraid too for the same exact reason. John's question was worth a serious reflection indeed – would Anders feel the same for his husband once he would be back several weeks from now? The question followed him like a shadow to his bedroom, then to the council hall where he had to attend the justice court.

He had a hard time concentrating on the witnesses, accused and accusers' ranting. All that fussing was about a stolen donkey and Anders truly wanted to ask the guards to put all of them in jail, just to sort the case quickly. All he could think about was John's letter and how he could reply to it. He still forced himself to find a solution to the donkey drama. "What would John do?" Anders asked himself.  This way of thinking seemed to work, because in the end, the Great Consort found an arrangement that suited all the parties.

At the end of the court session, everybody left the room but Anders who stayed behind, seated in his consort's chair and lost in thoughts. It actually took him a while before noticing the tall, slim man standing in the middle of the room and staring at him. Said man was wearing the blue and green tabard of the soldiers under the orders of the Mitchells’ clan, but the consort had never seen him before.

"Who are you?" Anders asked, frowning. He was always a bit suspicious with strangers, mainly the ones who were staring at him in silence for no apparent reason.

"I'm Carl Allen, Your Grace," said the man, bowing down with a hand over his heart. "I'm a lieutenant in Eelry's city defense. John wrote to me so I'd replace George Sands at the head of your guard."

"Oh. Fine," Anders replied, relaxing and scanning the soldier from head to feet. The man might be about his age if not slightly older. His husband had not informed him about that replacement, but given how busy the Great Lord was before his departure, it was not surprising. Anders couldn't help but notice that Carl had referred to his husband as _"John"_ and not " _my liege", "my lord"_ or " _his highness"_ , which meant that they were close or had been friends in the past. However, the consort had never heard the name " _Carl Allen"_ before having the man in front of him.

"Since you’re replacing George, I'll call you 'George' too if you don't mind.  It will be less confusing that way," Anders decided, with his best deadpan expression.  

"Er..I..." Carl stuttered.

"I'm kidding!" Anders laughed and the other man just closed his mouth and looked at him without any hint of a smile. Obviously, the guard had forgotten his sense of humor in Eelry, or he was too shocked by Anders' easy-going attitude to react. Maybe, like many, Carl expected to find at the head of the Mitchells' estate a terrible witcher, ready to cast a curse on whoever displeased him.

"Welcome to Brastàl, Carl Allen," Anders simply said, standing up in order to gather the minutes and notes the clerk had left on the table. He was expecting Carl to leave, but after a while, he heard a discreet cough behind his back and he turned around to look at the guard again. "Is there something else you need to tell me?" Anders wondered.  

"Actually yes," Carl said, drilling his dark brown eyes in Anders' gaze.  "I know how fast gossips tend to spread in this castle," he began in an enigmatic tone. "I'm from Brastàl, born and raised, but it's been nine years I haven't set foot here, and when people find out I've returned, I do not doubt you will hear about what happened between John and I before the end of the day. So I prefer telling it to you myself."

Anders put his pile of paper on the table to give his full attention to the soldier. He wasn't sure he was going to like what Carl had to say. Though, he had to admit he was intrigued. "And what exactly happened between you and my spouse?" he questioned, leaning back against the table.  

Carl sighed. "It was long ago. John was fifteen and I was twenty-three. I know he was very young, but I was young too, and stupid. We had an affair. I was the first man he slept with. He never had anybody before me. I was the one who took his-"

"Yes! I get the picture, thank you!" Anders cut him off.  His curiosity gave way to annoyance. He knew that John had had other relationships before their wedding, but to actually imagine him in other arms was waking a nasty, boiling feeling in his guts. He had already felt it when he had caught John kissing one of his former lovers at the temple, and it had been disagreeable enough for him to never want to renew the experience. "What made you stop playing the beast with two backs together?" Anders asked the guard, being just blunt enough to keep the slender man in his current discomfort.

"I made the mistake of falling in love," Carl replied, sheepish.

Anders stayed in mute stupefaction. Of all possible answers, he had to admit he was not expecting this one.  

"I had this naïve idea that he was feeling the same and that he would accept to elope with me.  I never told John about the plans I had for us, but I declared my love to him nonetheless," the guard went on. He avoided the consort's gaze. It was obvious his past deeds still weighed on him. "His father learnt about my confession. I never knew how. Maybe John told him himself. As a result, Lord James politely showed me the door and had me transferred to Eelry, as far from his son as I could be."

"Why?" Anders wanted to know, even if he had a fairly good idea of the reason.

"You," Carl simply stated. "John was already promised to you. He could fool around in various beds all we wanted, but love was a dangerous business. His heart was supposed to be yours, and from what he told me in his last letter, you are indeed the sole owner of it now."

Anders lifted his chin up in a defiant posture, his eyes not quitting the other man. "And you came back to have your revenge and murder me in my sleep?"

Carl let out a short chuckle. "No, my lord. I won't do such a thing. I'm happily married myself. I just wanted you to know the facts, without the layer of scandal that gossips usually put over them."

"Well… I guess I should thank you for you honesty," Anders conceded.

"Your servant, my liege," Carl smiled, bowing down again before turning on his heels and leaving the hall.  

 

***

Under the faint light of the candle, Anders held his feather pen in the void over the paper sheet- his mind as blank as the page before his eyes. No sentence or formulation seemed appropriate or good enough to start his reply to John. The words had battled in his head like undisciplined school kids all day, and now it was like they were all mute. Or maybe it was Anders who became deaf to their call.

He threw his head back with a loud sigh, making the chair crack. Tiolam, curled up on his lap, licked his hand in some attempt at cheering up her friend.  "Why is it so hard, huh?" he asked her, scratching the white spot on her throat. He was born under the spirit of speech – expressing how he felt should be an easy business for him.  And somehow it wasn't. He was always censuring everything even before it could come out of him. Some said he had no filter, that he was always bluntly honest, but truly, it was just a front. Because when it came to expressing the things that mattered, it never worked.

"I just have to imagine he is there," Anders mused, turning around to look at one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. "What would I tell him if he was in here with me?"

He imagined John seated in the armchair, with his head tilted to the side, smiling at him with a curly strand of hair falling in front of one eye. "I would not speak if he was there," Anders realized with another sigh. "I would kiss him and bring him into our bed." But now he had no choice – now he couldn't tell how he felt to his husband only using his hands, lips and body. All he had was that pen and that piece of paper to reach his lover. He stared some more at his imaginary reconstruction of his husband. "Talk to me, a ghraìd," he heard John say, like an encouragement, despite it coming directly from the blond man’s own mind.

Anders put the tip of his feather pen to the paper and the words suddenly flowed out with the ink like they had been stocked there all along.  

 

 

 

_Brastàl Castle, 4th day of the week of Pessa, first year of the 11th G.L. (May he live long)_

_Dear husband,_

_I got your letter this morning, and damned gods- why does it have to be pigeons!? I hate those nasty birds! They are like flying rats. I was still happy to get news from you, though._

_As for that painting of me, I'm offended you thought I was seventeen. I was twenty-five on that one! Fine, I know I always looked younger than my age. But it's not given to everybody to be a virile pack of muscles as soon as they are out of their diapers (like you were)!_

_I also had another proof today that you were an early bloomer. After the justice court, I had the pleasure to meet an old 'friend' of yours who is now the chief of my guard. I guess you know who I am speaking about. An interesting man, that Carl Allen… with a lot of fascinating stories to tell. Don't worry, I'm not keeping grudge against him because he deflowered you in your prime youth. I mean, someone had to do it. I guess you could have done worse. I just regret we had to be kept apart at that time and that I was a blind prick back when you were fifteen, because now I think I would have done a great job at taking your delicate virginity. If this little fling of yours was motivated by a taste for older men, may I remind you that I was twenty two at that time? Anyway, it wouldn't have happened that way, for a lot of reasons, and we both know it._

_I understand from your letter that you really had a lot of time on the road to overthink things. I know what is happening right now: you are making up dramatic scenarios in your cute curly head. You imagine you will come back to Brastàl only to learn that I escaped with a bunch of priestesses to the mountains to build myself a harem. As nice as this fantasy might seem from my point of view – it will not happen.  Fear not, my lord for when you come back home: you'll find me where I should be and without any other attachment but the one that binds me to you._

_I'm relieved to know you forgive me for what I did on the day you left, but I can't take the chance to deceive you once more. I got to be quiet and wise, you said? I'll try my best. But don't keep your expectations too high. My big mouth and my cocky self are never far under the surface._

_Speaking about cocks: beware of your squire. I know you want to believe that everybody has pure intentions: but that kid wants to serve you night and day, standing up or on his knees, if you know what I mean. I'm not jealous,  it's just that…   Fine! Yes! I AM jealous. You are my husband, not his. I fought boars half naked, tamed a crazy mare and nearly drowned to have you – there is no way I will let a pretentious fop seduce you._

_I trust you, I really do- it's him I do not trust. Call me paranoid if you want, but I'm pretty sure that at some point, he will trip and fall by ‘accident’ and his head will end up under your kilt. Horny youngsters are the kind of creatures I know well – I was one of them not so long ago. If I were at his place, having you as a master, I would probably do the same thing: trip in front of you on the flowers of the carpet's pattern, just to see how well your crotch would fit on my face._

_And speaking about crotches – how is that dickhead Robert Duncan? Is he picking on you? If he makes you cry, I'll run down Carraìg road barefoot in the snow to go kick his arse. Nobody makes my girl cry without suffering the consequences._

_But, seriously: how are you doing? I hope Mikkel is helpful and Axl is behaving and not trying to play the hero._

_It's bloody freezing here in Brastàl. I don't know how it is down south, but I guess that with the wind coming from the plains, it isn't any better. And don't blow on your fingers if they get cold – idiots do that and with the moist from your breath, you get them even colder._

_Keep warm, maiseach. (as long as it's not with your squire)_

_Anders_

_P.S. Tiolam chewed one of your boots a bit. Right, no. Better tell you the truth: she destroyed the whole thing. I found pieces of leather everywhere in the room. Sue me._

__

***

Anders always had a tendency to insomnia, even as a child, but now it was worse than ever.  He told himself it could only be a coincidence that the insomnia had struck back full force now that John was gone. Maybe it was the air in the castle that wasn't good for his sleep. Maybe it was Tiolam's hair all over the room. It could also be the cold, the humidity or the lingering feeling that he was not a good lord that kept him awake every night.

On the other side, it was true that after his wedding; Anders had discovered that the best sleeping nights he could get were after having sex with his husband. John had a gift to exhaust him to the core and afterward, the blond man was sleeping like a baby. Now that he didn’t have John and his marvelous talents, he wasn't able to get enough sleep.

The other problem was his wedding tattoo - red, swollen and itching even if it should have healed a long time ago. He endured the situation silently and he even tried to cure his insomnia with alcohol. Of course it didn't work and the inhabitants of the castle were whispering about the Great Consort's declining health.

Anders looked a bit like an undead- with his skin even paler than it used to be, dark circles around his eyes and his scruffy face he didn't bother shaving anymore.

He was dozing off most of the day – sometimes in the face of John's advisors', and at night he was pacing in his room, reading books or looking outside by the window: unable to sleep. Sometimes, he put his cloak on and climbed at the top of the tower to take fresh air and to look to the south. Far away, somewhere the other side of the black horizon line was the man he called his husband. But he didn't want to believe that his current state was the result of John's absence. Longing for someone was not something that could happen to Anders Johnson.

"You should go to town and see Master Sìleas," Lady Ann advised him one day, truly concerned for her son-in-law.

Anders approved with a resigned nod. After all, he had nothing to lose by consulting a healer.

Soon the morning after, he made his way to the blind alley where Arthus Sìleas had his dispensary. Anders was forced to pay a copper coin to the feathered guardians of the waiting room that wouldn't leave him alone as long as he hadn't given them a shiny object.

Master Sìleas finally received him in his office and the consort found refreshing the way the old man was calling him "Anders", "son" or "lad", instead of his more pompous titles. For once he felt like a real person and not some superior being who must either be revered or feared. Not that Anders hated power – he loved it, but he had recently understood it came with a lot of work, and he had to admit that his laziness surpassed his thirst for power.

His black bushy eyebrows frowning during the whole process, the healer examined Anders' left wrist and also his eyes, his mouth and his ears. When he was done with his examination, Sìleas sat back on his stool and observed his noble client. "When was the last time you went to the temple to pray?" he asked Anders.

"I'm not here for esoteric mumbo jumbo," Anders warned him, "I want drugs, herbs, concoctions – something that actually works."

The healed chuckled, not offended in the slightest by the consort's jeer. He searched in his shelves and handed the blond man a little linen pouch and a small bottle with a dark green liquid inside. "Drink a chamomile infusion in the evening before going to bed and apply the marigold tincture to your tattoo twice a day. It should help appeasing the symptoms a little, but I'm afraid it won't cure you. At best it'll help you get some temporary relief."

Anders weighted the objects in his hands. "Why giving me these if they won't really work anyway?"

The old man patted the Great consort's shoulder gently and gestured toward the door, as an indication that the consultation was over.  "Take those as prescribed until you are ready to come back and listen to my esoteric mumbo jumbo."

Anders left without a whisper- feeling like a scolded child. He did as asked for the few days that followed. He gained two or three hours of sleep per night. It was better than nothing but not enough to go back to normal – it was just enough to keep him alive and functional at the very minimum. The marigold tincture reduced the swell and the redness of the flesh around the tattoo, but it failed to suppress the itching and Anders had to fight against himself not to scratch it until it bled.

"Tell me what I have to do," a seriously sleep-deprived Anders begged the healer, back in his office a week later.  

"Your tattoo is the mark that binds you to your spouse," Sìleas observed, taking Anders' hand and looking to the inside of his wrist. "Your body is rejecting it, because your heart and mind are doing the same."

"That's not true," the consort objected. "I once dreaded and refused that marriage, but not anymore."

"I believe you, Anders. I believe you when you say that you stopped refusing the man the spirits chose for you," Sìleas reassured him, letting go of his hand. "But let me remind you that simply allowing someone to love you is not a proof of love in itself."   

As Anders kept quiet, the healer went on. "It's something I've seen before. It seems that you welcomed love as long as it was the safe, pleasurable side of it. You accepted your love for John as long as he was still there to feed it with his own tenderness. But what now? What happens now that John isn't present to nurture it for you? You are alone with your own feelings and the kind that hurts – the loss, the longing, the doubt. And suddenly, you don't want it anymore, this love that aches and makes you feel weak to your own eyes. You still have the capacity to feel your husband presence, through your bond, even if he is far away - but you deny yourself that power because you fear the deep attachment that comes with it. You prefer burying your feelings deep inside rather than bare your flank and show the world that you have a heart too. As long as your eyes remain dry, you shall remain ill. Unless, of course, you really think John is not someone worth crying for."

 _"Nobody is worth crying for,"_ Anders wanted to yell, but he abstained. "I should cry because people expect me to miss my husband like the good little spouse I must be," he snorted.  

"No," the healer stated, standing up to open the window and let one of his magpies in. "I only think you should stop hiding the fact you really do miss him," he corrected, gently dusting the snowflakes from the docile bird's back. "What you keep inside festers there and infects the body and the mind. The little boy who never felt appreciated enough and the teenager who thought nobody deserved his love – they are both dead. You are a man now, Anders. Thank the spirits for what you have and be humble. The spirits can help you, you know, if only you can stoop as low as asking them for their help."

"Be humble," Anders repeated under his breath, in a sulky mumble. "And what do I do about my insomnia?" he inquired.

"You will be cured if you follow my advice," Sìleas replied. "But in the meantime, find something, some piece of clothing that still has John's scent in it and sleep with it close to you until the smell disappears completely. It helps with soothing the pain of separation. That's usually what I advise for young children who recently lost a parent."

Anders opened his mouth to snap and protest he was not some orphan kid, but he remembered that, in fact yes: he was an orphan. "Healers in Aklànd would have never advised that kind of thing," he remarked.

"Aklànd's healers are all incompetents," Sìleas laughed. "They prescribe drugs, herbs and concoctions – things that actually work," he added with a wink.

 

***

_Archerwall, 6th day of the week of Izee, first year of the 11th G.L._

_My beloved Anders,_

_I received your letter this morning and it was like breathing fresh air after a season in a dark room. I unrolled it and instantly, I was home._

_I'm glad to see that you get along with Carl. What he and I once had is a thing of the past, and I hope you'll be able to appreciate his qualities as a chief of the guard._

_My eternal apologies, Your Grace, for having mistaken your twenty-five year old self for a boy seven years younger. I just regret you never sent me a portrait like this one, as I asked you many times in the letters I sent to Aklànd. I think I would have fallen in love instantly with those soulful eyes._

_I would gladly dedicate the rest of this letter to shameless wooing, since I must say I feel romantic tonight, but I'm a bad poet and you asked me news of the battlefield, so I shall give you some._

_Duncan leads a little political program of his own to sap my authority, thinking I'm too dumb to notice. I know he already has the clans from the East on his side– the McCallums and the McGregors.  I manage to put him in his place most of the time and reduce the scope of his shenanigans, but for how long? If this military campaign doesn't give good results, I will lose the trust of the other clan chiefs who still support me and you can be assured that Duncan will step forward to take my title._

_For now, the campaign doesn't give any_ _results whatsoever. The soldiers are suffering from the cold and the constant wind. Duncan is accusing me of having made the clans and their armies travel here for nothing and I know his complaints find an increasing number of favorable ears._

_We sometimes get to see some movements on the opposite bank of the Lileas river, but it looks like the nomads have renounced attacking us. Which is not a bad thing in itself – I'd prefer not to lose any men. But on the other side, it's bad for my reputation._

_I make the soldiers build palisades and walls to keep them occupied, but I can see they are demotivated. It definitely lacks action here._

_My intuition tells me it's just the calm before the storm. I can't help suspecting that the nomads are waiting for some sign to make a move. I don't like the thought of it- but it's not like I could do something about it- except waiting. The river is partially frozen, but I still sent a raft with a white flag, to let the nomads know I wish to discuss- see if we can get to an agreement and avoid the bloodbath. So far, they didn't give any sign they want to parley. Mikkel is as concerned as I am, but you just need to know that both your brothers are fine._

_Also, you were mostly right about my squire. I'm sorry I have doubted your words. Two days ago, during an especially cold night. I came back to my quarters and Ruaidhri asked if I’d like him to share my bed and offer me warmth and comfort. He tried to kiss me and I had to push him away. I was civil and simply told him I wished to stay faithful to my husband. Much to my surprise, he seemed relieved. He explained that the other recruits told him that it was something he had to do to be a good squire._

_So you see that you don't have to worry, for I am all yours, no matter what offer I get._

_You are never far from my mind, my dear love. I think of your body more often than I should. I always look forward to the night to be alone and free to imagine you without remorse. When I come home in the spring, I'm afraid I won't let you step out of our bed for at least three days._

_I miss the pretty sounds that stumble from your lips when I'm having you. I love all of them: from the loud, throaty ones you make when I'm taking you in my mouth, to the quiet little whimpers you emit just after release when I'm appeasing your body with slow caresses. I miss the urgent, wordless pleas you moan in my ear when I kiss and bite your neck. In those moments you become so pliant… sweet spirits! Just the thought of it makes me want to leave all this absurd war behind and come back to you._

_I know in my heart that you are faithful to me, just as I am to you, but I want to know how you are coping since I am not there to do my duty as a husband.  Do you touch yourself at night? I wouldn't mind, my beauty. There is nothing to be ashamed of. It's perfectly natural to have physical needs and especially since you are a young, healthy man. You know how much I'd like to be there to satisfy your appetites._

_Write me another letter just like the last one, please. It made me laugh and smile. Your words gave me the impression I could hear your voice through them. I could even see the expression you would have made writing each sentence. I'll be waiting for news impatiently._

_Your husband who loves and misses his foxy little man._

_P.S. I forgive you for my boots, but keep Tiolam far from the only other pair I have left at home. I love them a lot._

_P.P.S I'm not blowing on my fingers to warm them, promise._

 

Anders chuckled out loud at the last line. "Good boy," he said fondly, folding the piece of paper.

A snow storm had covered Brastàl with a thick, white cloak. It was snowing for two days now and the weather had kept Anders in a constant state of mild concern. If his husband had sent him a letter, the pigeon might freeze to death on its way to Brastàl. He had a hard time hiding his relief when Carl brought him the letter from the pigeon loft in the morning.  

With the letter carefully tucked inside his jacket, under his cloak, Anders had saddled his horse an hour earlier, rode out of the city walls and to the top of the hill where he used to spar with John. The consort wanted to have some privacy to read the news from the battlefield.

The soft smile the consort sported during his reading disappeared the second the letter was back into his pocket.  The cold, accentuated by the sight of the frozen landscape, crept back inside his heart. His husband's words had enveloped him like a warm wool blanket, but soon the illusion of proximity shattered and the blanket was pulled away from him. Anders scanned the hilly scenery like he didn't belong there. He felt his eyes sinking some more in the dark circles that surrounded them for weeks now.   

Meanwhile, Tiolam had the time of her life on the top of the hill: leaping and plunging face first in the snow to dig out mice. She wasn't really successful so far, but she was still practicing her hunting skills. Ornàn was watching the whole scene, chomping on his mouthpiece, rather unimpressed by the vixen's antics. The stallion had grown his long winter coat that Anders always found beautiful even if it took longer to groom.

"Come on, buddies. It's time to go home," Anders told the fox and the horse, pushing Ornàn carefully on the path leading down the hill as the red fox followed behind, taking advantage of the horse's prints to move forward without sinking down into the snow.

The consort wasn't feeling good, but since it was his normal state these days, he didn't really pay attention to the alarm signals his body was sending him. He felt overheated as his horse passed the gate leading to the castle courtyard. Anders’ spine felt moisted from cold sweat. He heard a loud whir that seemed to come from inside his own head. His field of sight narrowed and his vision started to turn black. He tried to hold on to his saddle, but he went limp and fell down his horse. Fortunately, the snow cushioned the fall and he hadn't actually had the time to lose consciousness before the shock woke him up.

"Anders! Anders!? Are you fine, my boy?" Lady Ann worried, kneeling down next to him. She touched his forehead gently with warm, soothing fingers. Anders hadn't noticed that she was in the courtyard with her servants before he passed out.

"Yes. I'm sorry, my lady," Anders apologized, sitting up. His head was spinning and his vision blurred. "I'm just tired, I think."

"Ines! Help His Grace to his bedroom," Lady Mitchell ordered one of her maids, and Anders didn't even try to protest. He did not have enough energy for that.

 

 

***

 

Anders had resisted for too long now: stubbornly avoiding taking Sìleas' advice seriously. He still spent awful nights and the days that followed weren't better. He was on the verge of being driven mad with exhaustion. If, on top of that, he was now fainting like a light-weight – it was the sign that this had gone too far.

Anders was still laying on his bed where Lady Mitchell's maid had left him. He stared at the ceiling, the letter he had read at least twenty times resting now on his chest. John had said he could hear and see Anders through his letter, but Anders wasn't really able to feel the same with John’s. Little by little, the words had lost their comforting virtue with the successive readings. By now, John's letter was just a sheet of paper with ink smeared on it- forming sentences and paragraphs. Anders wasn't able to let it touch him and stir something inside. Master Sìleas was right. He had pushed his husband outside of his own heart; like it was the only way to avoid feeling the pain and the need.  But sooner or later, the pressure from inside would make the padlock break.

He had tried to postpone the inevitable, but the lump that started forming in the consort's throat was a good indicator of the imminent explosion.  A painful ball of helplessness was seated on his Adam apple and seemed to be there to stay, no matter how hard he gulped or how loud he coughed.

 Not able to take it anymore, Anders left the bed and crossed the room to the cabinet. He slammed the door open and started searching frantically for his husband's bathrobe. He knew it hadn't been washed and that the younger man had just put it back there. When he finally found it, he went back to his bed, carrying it like was the most precious thing he owned. Desperate situations called for desperate measures, and as much as Sìleas' treatment for abandoned orphans had seemed silly to Anders, it wasn't like he had a lot of other options anymore. Neither his mind nor his body would be able to put up with one more sleepless night.

Lying onto his side on the bed, he buried his face in the plush fabric and inhaled. It was still there and surprisingly intact: John's spicy and musky scent. For a split second, it was like being in his husband's arms all over again. There was no place to hide from the rush of emotions that hit Anders. It was dragged into the light at once – all he was missing since John's departure – all he was afraid to lose forever: the comfort and the anchorage. He felt his eyes fill with tears and this time, he didn’t even think of holding them back.

“Why did you do that to me, you bastard?” he sobbed. "Fuck, John! You knew how much I needed you and you still left!" he wept. "No, of course you didn't know: because I never really told you – not with words, not completely, not without using some sarcasm or jokes to make you believe I didn't really mean it. What will I do if you don't come back!? How will I be able to carry on, knowing I spoiled my only chance at cherishing you without putting barriers in my own way? I love you! I love you so bad.” He held the bathrobe tight against his chest and gulped. “One day, I hope, you'll let me prove it to you."

Yes. The deed was done. How did he manage that? How on earth did he fall so hard? He should have been more careful. At least find a way to cushion the fall… if such way existed at all. And now he was crying like a damaged child. He wasn’t acting like the thirty-two year old nobleman he was. He should feel ashamed and self-conscious about all those tears wetting the fabric of the bathrobe. But for once, being alone, he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability: not because he was weak, but because he was human.

He cried himself to sleep, but he actually slept through the afternoon and until the following morning.  For the first time since John was gone- he dreamt of his man. It wasn’t a sexual dream or even an intimate one. It was just the two of them grooming their horses side by side and laughing at some private joke, but it was more than what he had even dared hope for.

When Anders woke up the next morning, his tattoo was not swollen or red anymore and he felt strangely at peace.

 

***

_Brastàl, Second day of the raven spirit's week, 1st year of the 11thG.L. (May he live long)_

_Dear John,_

_With the snowstorm going on, I feared to never get your letter. I was relieved to receive it despite everything._

_I'm sure that soon enough, Duncan will bring up the subject of our marriage to try to despoil you from your rights and titles. I told you I was a poisonous gift, remember? I told you the first time we were together at the top of the donjon tower. You didn't believe me. You should have sent me back to Aklànd when you still had the chance, or let me leave to Pine Port._

_Of course I don't think those words. I often say things I don't think and I keep for myself the ones I really mean. Maybe I am this way because when I'm honest, nobody seems to believe me most of the time._

_I still remember how you reassured me before the trials, during that same conversation on the donjon rooftop. You told me you should be the one feeling privileged to get to be with such a unique man as me. I just hope you still feel the same._

_Perhaps it would have been better for you, from a political perspective, if you never wedded me. But life isn't all politics, right? And in a very selfish way, I'm glad you didn't send me away._

_I feel like we barely had time to get to know each other. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and it makes everybody think they can know anything about you. But there is still this part of shadows in you. I should have paid more attention to you when you were still here. Who are you, John Mitchell? What are your most secret ambitions and dreams? Is there more to know about my brooding and choleric yet tender and attentive husband than I already do?_

_All I know is that you are the only one who ever seemed to think I had some value. It always had been the same pattern with the girls I slept with: they made me feel like they were the ones doing me a favor by letting me fuck them. It was hard on my ego and my pride, as you can imagine. You, on the other side, never treated me like I was different from the other men. You always acted like you could see past the color of my hair or my eyes. In fact it's even better than that – you did see them for what they were, but you seemed to think I should be proud of those features. You love all the things I always hated in myself._

_That's what I've been craving for all my life, someone who would not notice I am different than the lot. I wanted someone who would love everything in me… not to indulge my ego, but just so I wouldn't feel like the black sheep for a change. You gave me that, and even more, and it was so unexpected and unusual that my first reflex was one of rejection._

_That day during my birthweek when we had sex for the first time, you stripped me of  my clothes and my pride – I lay there before you:  feeling completely naked, without any disguise or false pretense._

_The thing I loathed the most all my life- to have to be worthy of you, is now the thing I want the most. I would have probably been relieved, when we met, to discover that you didn't deserve me, but you do, and now I am the one who still has to get off my pedestal and work to deserve you. It's going to be my way to be humble._

_I never wanted to be good – a good husband or even a good person. Nobody ever gave me the desire to act with virtue. You still forced me. That's what you do, John- you don't leave people around you being any less than righteous._

_And yes, I'm not made of wood: of course I touch myself sometimes! I'm afraid I didn't wait for your permission to do so. But I know that your real question is: "who do I think about while doing it?" And since I like to keep a bit of suspense, let's only say he is tall, dark and handsome. He fights like a man and loves like a woman. I'm sure you can guess who I am speaking about._

_Since the spring gathering is in Aklànd this year and that we have to be there together- I'm planning on bringing you to the fairy ponds in the hills not far from the Thuath river. This way, I can sit on my arse again and watch you try to catch fish for my tank. Therefore, you have to come back to me if I want to make it true._

_Why can't you be back already? That's a stupid question, I know._

_Be safe, maiseach._

_Anders_

***

Anders had given up on locking himself up with his sadness like a dragon with its hoard. That long letter he had written to his other half had helped, but it didn't mean that he was free from the loneliness.

No chair ever seemed as empty as the one Anders had in front of him as he took a first slurp of soup. He put his spoon down and stared at that chair and its insufferable emptiness for a long moment.  He could only tear his gaze from it when Annie stepped into the room to bring him a basket of sliced bread.

The consort gave her his most convincing smile as a silent thank.  

She stood at the side of the table, as if waiting. "I meant to ask," she hesitated, uneasy. "Did you hear anything from Axl?"

"I know he is on the battlefield with Mikkel and John, but that's about it," Anders replied. "Did you get any news?"

"No," she breathed, disappointed, looking down at her apron and drying her hands on it. Anders noticed she was wearing the silver bracelet John and he had given her as a birthweek present.

"I didn't dare write to him,” she went on. “I was afraid Lord Johnson would catch my letter," she confessed. "I'm not supposed to ever speak to Axl again, you know?"

"Hm, yes. I heard about it, I'm sorry," Anders apologized. He wished he could do something to help her, but he knew Mike would not let him interfere in that kind of business.  

She nodded in silence.

"If I hear anything, I'll let you know," the blond man tried to reassure her.

"Thank you," she said, with a hopeful gleam in her eyes.  

"Are you hungry? There's plenty for two," the blond man offered, gesturing toward the meal on the table.

Her eyebrows furrowed as she searched Anders' eyes, wondering how serious he was. "I… I'm not supposed to…" she stuttered.

"I don't really fancy eating alone one more time," he insisted.  

"Well, in that case," she pondered before finally deciding to sit in the chair in front of the Great Consort. "Thanks," she whispered, taking one of the goat cheese pastries and biting in it without real appetite. Anders scrutinized her a moment before he resumed eating his soup. What he had taken for a meaningless flirt between his younger brother and the maid was apparently more than that. Once again, while he was whining about his own fate, he had forgotten that others around him were suffering the same pain. In Annie's case it was even worse, since she would never be able to be with Axl while Anders had the luck to be married to his lover– a man he didn't even want in the first place.

"Did John never invite you at his table?" the aklànder asked Annie, as an attempt at starting a conversation.  

"He rarely was at the castle before his marriage," the maid explained. "And when he was in Brastàl, he usually preferred eating at the Lazy Lass or going to visit his lovers," she added. She clapped a hand on her mouth, eyes wide, when she realized what she just said. "Oh, sorry. I shouldn't have said that," she apologized, "it was indelicate.  I always put my foot in my mouth, you must excuse me."

"That's fine, Annie, really," he soothed her embarrassment. "I'm well aware that my husband had a life before I stepped in." 

She gave him a tiny smile, but still seemed preoccupied. Anders could only feel compassion. "Thanks for keeping me company," he told her, trying to return the smile.

***

It was three days later, during an evening that yet promised to be a quiet one, that Anders was reminded the spirit of death could strike at any moment.

The blond man was reading in his room when a servant knocked on the door, announcing that the Great Consort had gotten a present, delivered at the castle a few minutes ago.  

The Aklànder grinned when the manservant gave him a bag of candied almonds, saying: "It's from the bakery, my lord. They received a note from His Highness, asking them to prepare this for you."

Once the servant was gone, Anders settled in his armchair with his present, ready to relish in his favorite dessert. His husband knew his weaknesses.

By rote, he shoved a hand inside the paper bag to take of one the treat as he read the note accompanying the gift.

_My dear consort,_

_Here are some treats for you to savor._

_Lord John_

The blond man was about to shove one of the sweet almonds in his mouth but something kept him from doing it as he stared down at the note on his lap. He hesitated, his mouth still agape. He closed it, put the treat back into the bag and wiped his sticky fingers on his kilt.  

Anders recognized his spouse's writing, but the message sounded weird… too impersonal. John would never sign with "lord" before his name if addressing to his husband and lover. It was not like him. But this handwriting was undeniably his… or very well-imitated.

The aklànder opened the bag again and inhaled his content. No suspicious odor came to his nose, apart from the delicious one of the almonds and the honey.  

He decided not to take any chance and put on his winter cloak before leaving his bedroom.

 

***

"I need rats," Anders told the burly woman after she opened the door of her house, adjacent to the prison building.

"Sorry?" Mistress Moray frowned, taken aback by her lord's unusual request.

"Rats," he repeated, "as in the actual animals. I figured out here was the best place to find some."  Indeed, even if John and his father had always tried to keep the prison cells in a decent state, the blond man figured out that if he wanted to get rats – Brastàl castle’s jail was likely to have some. Mistress Moray, who occupied the function of jailer along with her husband, was a tall, large and impressive woman. Even the most confident soldiers of Brastàl would hesitate to face her in a fist fight. When the prisoners misbehaved, Master Moray told them that if they didn't obey he would call his wife, and the threat usually worked. On the other side, unlike some, she had always been courteous with the Great Consort.

"Of course milord," the woman replied, still unsure, "if you care to follow me."

They entered the prison building and followed a long, dark corridor.

"Before, I used to put the rats I was catching into bags and drown them," she explained as Anders followed her down a flight of stairs, "but His Highness didn't like the practice. So now I trap them in cages and put them outside, but you know- they always come back."

Anders and his guide got into a storage room and it was so dark down there that he heard rather than he actually saw the woman picking up metal cages. "This one is empty, but there are three rats in that one, Your Grace."

The jailer put the cage in Anders' hands and made some light in the room with an oil lamp.

"Perfect. I'll take the lot," the consort thanked her, looking at the three frightened pairs of black eyes and the sniffing noses framed with whiskers.

"If I may, my lord, why do you need rats?"

"For an… experiment," he replied, keeping it as vague as possible.  

"Oh damned gods!!!" she cursed, looking at a corner of the room. Anders followed her gaze and noticed that one of the barrels was leaking. Its content had already made a large dark puddle on the floor. "I need to clean this," Mistress Moray apologized.

"That's fine, I'll see myself out," Anders replied before wishing her a good night. He went up the stairs and he must have taken the wrong door because instead of the dark corridor, he ended up crossing the room where the prisoners were. He only had about thirty meters to walk to reach the other door and be outside. He couldn't back up now. He hoped his presence would go unnoticed, but it was like wishing to meet a virgin in a brothel.

It didn't take long before the insults and innuendos started fusing from everywhere.

"Hey guys, look who we have here, paying us a charming visit – it's our good John's little whore."

"How is it now that you are comfortably installed at the Lord's place?"

"Cunt!"

"I'm curious, do your spells still work on him when he is out of reach? Now that he is free from you, he is surely busy fucking half of his army to cleanse himself."

"He must be sorry that he ever touched your cock."

"Cast the witcher out!" a voice shouted at Anders' right side. This time, the consort stopped and snapped his head around. His eyes met a familiar face through the barred door: Boyd Cailean- the butcher boy Anders had helped John put in prison. Soon, all the prisoners were chanting those words as Anders hastened to leave the place.

 _"I guess that kind of behavior was predictable from a bunch of delinquents,"_ Anders told himself.  His attempt at underplaying what just happened to him wasn't a real success. He was still troubled as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

He placed the cage on the table near the window and out of Tiolam's reach. The fox had expressed her interest for the rodents with curious yelping as soon as Anders stepped into the room.

The blond man took a handful of candied almonds from the bag and threw them inside the cage. Then, he picked his fox up and left for the council hall where he planned on eating his supper before bringing his pet outside to take some fresh air in the garden. If she didn't spend her energy, Anders was assured she would find something in the bedroom to destroy with her well-trained little canines during the night.  

When Anders came back to his room two hours later, he approached the cage reluctantly. He found the rats on their backs: dead and stiff.

"I'm sorry, but better you than me,"  Anders apologized to the dead animals, gulping at the frightening sight. The torsion of their little corpses and the white froth around their mouth told Anders that the rats' death had been a painful one. He had a shudder of horror and disgust, remembering that he came close to eating one of the almonds. He would probably be dead by now, or close to it – drooling and convulsing on the floor. He wouldn't have made a prettier sight than those rats.  

He rang the bell and sent a maid to fetch Chief Guard Allen and also the servant who had brought him the "present".

It wasn't a secret for anybody that Anders loved those candies. They had even gained in popularity since people had learnt John was regularly buying whole bags of them to treat his husband. Also, anybody in Brastàl could have stolen a placard with an edicts written by the Great Lord to imitate his handwriting.

Anybody could have done it, as long as they knew how to write. There were a lot of people angry that the Great Lord had wedded the foreign-looking man. Some seemed truly convinced he was a sorcerer, or, at best, that he would bring bad luck to the whole country. There was also Robert Duncan, who would find it very convenient if John became a widower.

Carl was the first to arrive. Anders showed him the rats, the message and the almonds. While staying in an exemplary calm state, the tall guard took the threat against his lord seriously. "I will have a soldier posted at your bedroom's door every night and another one will follow you during the day," Carl decided.

Anders pulled a face. These dispositions were not filling him with joy, he loved his independence, but with that turn events, he had little choice but to agree.

"John would have wanted you to be safe," Carl pointed out when he saw the blond man’s hesitation.

"I know that," Anders sighed, "if he was there, he would probably have asked half of the army to guard the door."

"Is there someone among the servants that you trust completely?" Carl asked.

"Yes," the consort replied without hesitation. "Annie Sawyer."

"Fine. I'll speak to her. From now on, she will prepare all your meals and you must avoid any other food."

Anders nodded.

"You wanted to see me, my lord?" the servant Anders had summoned asked from the doorframe. The lord invited him in and he carefully closed the door. Mid-forties, limping, probably an ex-soldier, the man had been hired after John and Anders' wedding. Hence, he couldn't be one of the manservants who had shared John's bed before and would want to take revenge now, out of jealousy. Furthermore, the servant seemed apprehensive but clueless about the reason why he had been called to his master's room.

"The present you gave me earlier: who delivered it to the castle?" Anders questioned straight away.

"Some kid. I don't know him. He must work at the bakery."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm… I'm not," the servant hesitated, "I never saw him before, Your Grace."

"Did he give you his name?" Anders asked, though he didn't have much hope.  

"No, he didn't," the servant shook his head. "He only said it was for you and that the Great Lord had sent message to the bakery. He left after that."

"Would you be able to identify him if you saw him again?" Carl pressed him.

"I don't know. Probably. I didn't really pay attention," the man confessed.

 Anders thanked his employee and dismissed him, knowing he wouldn't get to learn anything else.  

"I will make an investigation of my own, if you allow me," Carl suggested. "I'll question the people from the bakery tomorrow. And maybe Master Sìleas can tell me what kind of poison was in the almonds," he added, taking the cage with the dead rats and a sample of the poisoned treats.

"Allen!" Anders hailed the guard as he was about to leave the room. "Not a word to my husband. He already has enough worries of his own."

Carl stopped and he seemed to hesitate for a second, like he wanted to protest, but instead, he nodded. "It will be done as you wish, my lord. Good night."

Anders locked the door as soon as the guard was gone. He grabbed the bag of poisoned treats and made sure there was not a crumb of almonds on the table or the floor. He didn't want Tiolam to find one. Tonight's events had probably spoiled the taste of candied almonds forever. Anders doubted he would ever be able to eat some again.  

He threw the bag in the fire and watched it burn. There were still six weeks left before the spring and John's return.

The prisoners' chant was echoing in Anders' mind like a curse:

_"Cast the witcher out. Cast the witcher out. Cast the witcher out!!!"_

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your personal culture, the idea I introduced in the last chapter about one's soul being able to travel wherever it wants when the person is asleep is an element I borrowed directly in the celtic mythology. So yeah, it may seem a bit sappy that John mentions he will visit Anders every night but it's a real mythologic belief.


	5. You Were Loved, Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my marvellous friend Katyushha for all the help and to Dragon4488 for adding her colorful talent to that story. It wouldn't be the same without you.

 

 

_My dearest,_

_I just got a letter from my mother saying that you were sick. Why didn't you tell me? I'm worried for you. Please, take some rest and take care of yourself._

_I felt you quite troubled in your last letter. It seems like there is a lot going on in your mind and your heart. Yes, it happens that I'm hurt when I reach for you and feel like you slam the door in my face, but I never felt that you did not deserve me. The more I get to know you, the prouder I am to have you as a lover and a consort. You have your own inner wounds, but just like the silver fox with its companion, I'd curl up around you and keep you warm until you heal._

_I realize I'm homesick. I never felt it in my life until now. Of course, when I was on the battlefield, I was missing my mother and Annie. But Brastàl: not really. I wasn't at the castle often before our wedding – always travelling from one city to another in our lands. I disdained the idea of staying at the castle for more than two or three days in a row. Now I miss you, of course, but I also miss our bedroom and the comfort I feel when I spend time there with you. I wish I could just sit by the fireplace with you…. or make love to you in front of it, like we did on the night of the winter fest. That would be the most marvellous thing that could happen to me right now._

_I have to share with you some of the thoughts that occurred to me today. I sat down to eat by a campfire with a few of my men from Longdale. One of them was carving a little bear out of a piece of wood for his four year old son. I know you don't even want to hear about heirs now, but as I watched this man work, I couldn't help thinking of you as a father. You never believe me when I say it – but you'd be such a good dadaìth. Despite all your grumbling you're always so caring with Tiolam, and I know you'd be just the same with a baby. I don't want you to take a decision now, but maybe you can take the time while I'm away to think about it. In the orphanages my father built in our lands, there are surely babies who need loving fathers like us. And I know for a fact that when the ruling family adopts a child, it encourages other families to adopt as well. We wouldn't help just one child, but a lot of them._

_It's not only about perpetuating my lineage. I'm trying to think about our future- about your future, and I'd be reassured to know that when we're older, if something happens to me, you'll have descendants to take care of you. All I'm asking from you is to give this question a serious consideration._

_The spies are reporting some concerning news from the plains. Several nomad  tribes are arriving from the south and some others from the coast. The latter is quite strange. The nomads don't usually camp near the ocean- they prefer staying inland. I'm expecting a raid soon, but I'm ready._

_The water of the loch thawed lately and the latest news from Lìnden speak of floating shadows in the offing on Douglas Bay. The guards saw them during the night. They could only say they looked like large boats with great sails. Nobody knows where they are coming from. It can't be the nomads. As far as I know, none of them ever built a vessel: they use canoes to cross the loch and rivers and they dread the ocean as if it's some sort of monster.  All we know for now is that these boats, or whatever they are, are coming in our direction. Lord Ferguson argues that they are the invaders the rumors were speaking about, coming to help the nomads defeat us. I don't want to base my strategies on rumors. I'll wait and see what happens. It can be only some fishermen from the North of Aklànd who followed the coastline and sailed the river to the loch now that it's unfrozen._

_I hope this will all be sorted in a few weeks so I can come home. I'm holding on to that hope – that soon I will hold you in my arms and kiss your lips. The longing is painful but I'm being brave. I can't wait to be with you again, Anders._

_I love you more than words can tell._

_Your other half:_

_John_

 

***

Anders rubbed his gloved hands together as he stared at the wall in front of him. The melted snow made the road around the castle's walls muddy and water was soaking through the leather of his boots. He shuddered. Even if the weather had become a little more benevolent during the last week, the blond man still felt uncomfortable. But perhaps it was not the temperature that was responsible for this sensation, but the sentence that somebody had painted on that wall next to the castle's gate.

The words were more like a slogan by now – obviously the motto of people Anders couldn't determine yet if they were organized or not. At least, the message was clear and had become scarily familiar to the blond man by now. "CAST THE WITCHER OUT," the white, painted letters said.

"Don't worry, my lord, I will have it erased as soon as possible," Carl reassured the Great Consort.

"It won't erase it from people's mind, though," Anders pointed out.

The chief guard had the decency not to retort anything falsely reassuring that would be an insult to the smaller man’s intelligence.

Carl's investigation on the poisoning attempt had led to a dead end. The bakery had never received any message from the Great Lord asking them to prepare almonds for Anders. The responsible had most likely bought the treats or prepared the almonds themselves and added the poison before sending someone to the castle to deliver the message and the bag. Unless the servant saw and recognized the boy who had made the delivery, Anders had no clues where to look. Master Sìleas had examined and dissected the dead rats and identified the poison as hemlock. Any part of this plant was poisonous and it could be found anywhere during summer, which made finding a suspect even more improbable.

In the meantime, the criminals were hiding in the crowd like needles in a haystack. Anders hoped he would find them before they pricked him again.

The discourses were flaming up in the streets of the Mitchells' lands capital. Rumor had it that the ancient gods were attacking the country to take revenge on the people who had stopped believing in them centuries ago. According to those fishy reports, the gods were back to punish the inhabitants of the North Hills. They were ready to make the north hillers pay for their treason by destroying the Great Lord's army.

Those claims sounded like old priestesses' divagations and Anders, suspicious by nature, was trained to filter the rumors and not believe all of them. After all, the latest gossips spoke of a secret affair between the Great Consort and one of Lady Ann's maids, namely Annie Sawyer. That sort of tittle-tattle made Anders laugh because he knew he was innocent from the accusation. But when it came to war and politics, there was never smoke without fire and there was surely something burning on the south frontier for the wind to carry the smoke up to Brastàl. And he couldn't take out of his head the mysterious vessels seen by soldiers of Lìnden.

He had not replied to John's letter yet- always too busy to just sit down and write. When he was finally free, late at night, he was usually too tired to write anything good or even coherent, and he would fall asleep on his desk, his forearms resting on a blank page and surrounded by paper balls. One of those crumbled, discarded attempts simply saying:

_If I say yes to children, will it make you come back sooner?_

 

***

_Tyrone Johnson of Aklànd to Lord Anders Mitchell of Brastàl, Winter, first year of the 11th GL (May he live long)_

_Dear brother,_

_I know I'm a bit late, but I firstly wanted to write to thank you and Lord John for the beautiful present I got for my birthweek. I'm sure my lady fiancée will appreciate it just as much as I do._

_Do you realize I'm Lord of Aklànd and you are Lord of Brastàl?! How crazy is that? It seems like it was yesterday when we were just little boys._

_You already know that it's usually my lady mother who takes Mike's place when he is away, but until my wedding, it's me who governs the lands. My mother left us in order to start a new life somewhere in Woodden. I think you'll be the last to miss her, and I can't blame you for that._

_Axl was excited to go to war, like a giant puppy its master had told it's time for a walk. He doesn't really understand yet what it implies.  He was mainly looking forward to bearing the sword of the Johnsons and to fighting and learning at the Great Lord's side. He admires Lord John a lot for all his feats._

_How are you coping without your husband by your side? When Mikkel got the letter announcing the military campaign, he also got a personal one from His Highness. I guess you are aware that your spouse wrote back to Mike in reply to the letter he sent with your birthweek presents. I read our liege's reply as well, since Mike asked me to tell him what I thought about it. Lord John seems to be content with you. Our older brother thinks that what your husband said in there was only written out of politeness. I have my doubts. According to what we hear here in Aklànd, it seems that our rulers' marriage is a blissful one, and I can't believe that it's all lies. I think the wish I made for you on your wedding day actually came true. I had the intuition that somehow, even if this union wasn't your choice, you would complete and understand one another. Our Great Lord is a good man. I'm glad you found happiness in his arms._

_But I'm probably just rubbing salt in your wounds right now. You must miss him terribly. I do miss my lady fiancée as well, so I can hardly imagine how difficult it must be for you to be separated from your rightful spouse._

_I still hope to see you at the spring gathering in Aklànd._

_Take care, brother_

_Tyrone Johan Gailleann Torìnsen Johnson_

Somehow, writing to his brother turned out to be as difficult as writing to John. Three hours and a lot of wasted paper sheets later, a short letter to Ty was placed into an envelope and closed with wax and the Mitchells' seal. The message was concise, vague, asking more questions than it gave answers. While he appreciated his brother's gesture and concern, Anders didn't want to pour his heart out in a letter, complaining on how hard life was in Brastàl and how alone he sometimes felt without his family and his husband. These were things Ty didn't need to know.    

When Anders went to bed that night, the good old insomnia was waiting for him under the covers. He lied down in his bed, but he didn't have much hope to be able to sleep at all. He was anxious, on the verge of nausea, but without being able to pinpoint the exact reason of his agitation. Tiolam curled up against his right flank and he could feel the fox' warmth even through the blankets and furs, but it failed to comfort him. She seemed restless too, lifting her head every time Anders moved, and after a while, she jumped off the bed and disappeared under it.

The consort placed his hands under his head and looked up at the ceiling, expecting to still be looking at it in a few hours. The fire was slowly dying in the hearth, making the room darker with every minute that passed. The darker the room got, the more blank Anders' mind became. He must have closed his eyes for  only a few seconds when he suddenly had the strange impression he wasn't alone in the bed. He turned over to his left side and his eyes met the deep, hazel ones.  

"Hey, my foxy little man," John murmured, reaching to card his fingers through his husband's hair.

Anders' heart made a violent leap in his chest. "What are you doing here!?" he exclaimed. The stupefaction soon turned into an almost painful joy. "When did you come back!?"

"Shhhh," the lord shushed him gently, caressing the blond's cheek in a feather-like touch. "I don't have much time."

"No! Why!? Where do you have to go?"

"I can't stay for long," John repeated, like he didn’t really hear Anders' protests and questions.

"Stay the night with me at least. It's been nearly three moons I haven't seen you," the blond man implored.

The warrior leaned forward and put a kiss to Anders' lips, so light the blond barely felt it. "I love you so much," John murmured.

"I don't understand," Anders muttered, putting a hand on the middle of the warrior's chest.

It felt strange. He pulled back. His hand looked wet and red. "John, you're bleeding!" Anders stammered, suddenly panicked, though the younger man didn’t seem to feel any pain.

Softly, John took the hand smeared with blood and he kissed the consort's fingers. "Come back to me, Anders," he whispered.

"I can't! It's you who's gone! You didn't want me to follow you," Anders shuddered, shaking his head and grabbing his husband to prevent him from leaving.

"Come back to me.  I need you," the brunet pleaded.  

"No, please. Don't go."

There was a loud noise- like glass breaking.  

Anders sat up in his bed, sweaty and panting: his heart racing like he had been chased by a pack of wolves. It was the morning and the wind was entering uninvited into the bedroom by the broken window. Tiolam was hidden under an armchair, yelping at the thing that had broken the window and was now lying still in the middle of the floor.

As a reflex, the consort looked at John's usual side of the bed. His husband was not there. He had dreamt it. For a brief moment, he had really thought his lover was back.

Anders rubbed his face with both hands and took the time to steady his breath and heartbeat. He grabbed his boots at the side of the bed and put them on. The next thing he did was pick up the fox from under the chair- he didn't want her to  hurt her paws on the shattered glass. After he put her to safety in her box, he walked to the window to see the damage. In the heap of glass pieces on the floor was a dead bird. The window might have had a defect already for it to break that way with only a bird crashing against it. Anders pushed the bird with the tip of his boot to make sure it was dead. It didn't move. The poor thing must have died instantly from the impact. He crouched to examine it closely.  The neck-broken bird was a turtledove.

Anders wasn't especially superstitious, and turtledoves had their nests all around the castle’s walls. They were the most likely to crash on the windows. It still made the consort frown. Dead birds were a sign of bad news and death, and it was hard not to make a parallel with the "present" the Great Spouses had found on their doorstep on the morning following their wedding. John would have said that it was a bad omen – and with the dream Anders had just had - the whole situation was just chilling. But even more chilling was the wind blowing in his bedroom, so Anders didn't lose any time and called a servant to repair the window and clean up the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

The real bad news arrived a few days later in the form of a letter, carried by a worn out messenger on a half-dead horse. The man and the poor beast had ridden without stopping for four days from Archerwall to Brastàl.

The Great Consort gave the messenger a generous payment. He postponed any other task he had to get done and locked himself up in his bedroom. His fingers were trembling as he unfolded the missive addressed to him. The handwriting on the envelope was already telling him it was from his husband and if John had taken the precaution to entrust a horseman with it, it must have been a matter of life and death. The letter had been written in haste. Some words were crossed out, some others were barely readable and the page was marred with ink spots. Anders expected the worst and his jaw clenched as he read the first words.

_My love,_

_I don't have much time._

_The rumors were true all along. I didn't want to believe them until we saw those thirteen vessels with white and red sails appear to the West through the fog._

_They landed on the other bank of the river. The men on board seemed to have hostile intentions from the start, but we thought we were safe since they were too far to shoot us with bows and arrows. It was until they set up those war machines I had never seen before- launching large projectiles at us – stones and immense arrows – destroying the walls of the city and killing a large amount of men. When they managed to make a breach in the wall, one of their boats crossed the river, followed by several hundreds of nomad canoes. The men coming out of the large enemy boat were wearing metal helmets and round shields and were certainly not nomads. I sent a contingent of soldiers to fight them off on the bank, in an attempt to prevent them from approaching the city. We soon discovered they had another strange kind of weapon consisting of a horizontal bow-like assembly mounted on a stock. It shoots short arrows with such strength it pierces our soldiers' armors and chain mails like they are made of butter. Shooting a bow requires a considerable degree of training, physical strength and expertise to operate with any degree of efficiency. Their bow-like weapons are deadly and physically undemanding which gives them a considerable advantage over us. We were losing so many soldiers I had to send more men to defend the city while the others were rebuilding the wall and patching the breach the best they could. Very few of the soldiers I sent came back and we had to suffer a similar attack yesterday. We succeeded to repel them and keep control on the river bank for now. There are still ten of those invaders' boats the other side of the river. If every of their attacks is as damaging as the ones we endured in the last few days, I give us three more days to stand at best, and I'm being overly optimistic._

_By now, we don't even have the opportunity to give our dead the last honors and to incinerate them on their spirits' funeral pillar. Lately, we started piling the bodies in trenches, but now there are no trenches that aren't already filled with corpses and we don't have enough men to dig new ones._

_I should have given more credit to the rumors of invasion. I should have been better prepared. But truth be told, I'm not even sure it would have changed anything. There is no way for us to measure up to a weapon technology we don't possess and don't even understand._

_We should escape from here while there are a few of us still alive. It seems like calling a retreat is the sole solution, but if I abandon Archerwall it's like giving those bastards the key to the whole country. They will take Carraig and the whole Ferguson lands in the blink of an eye, and then, they will probably destroy Lìnden and then go up North toward Brastàl or Aklànd._

_I'm giving you a last mission, my love, while I still can. You have to write and send messengers to every clan and tell them to be prepared and to organize the cities defense with the guards and soldiers they have left. Despite that, I'm afraid we will witness the end of the North Hills as a free federation governed by its people._

_Any rational mind seeing the carnage going on here would say that my cause is as desperate as trying to contain the sea waves from reaching the beach. I still have to try- to protect our homeland and the people in it. I have to do it to protect you. I vowed I always would. I have to try or die in the attempt._

_All I have left are desperate and hopeless prayers to the spirits. I feel that even they are powerless to help me now. I failed you; I failed my clan, my ancestors and the whole country. I wouldn't blame the spirits for abandoning me now. I'm starting to think that Duncan is right and that I never was worthy of the torc I wear._

_If the spirit of death has taken its decision and my life is to be ended soon, don't forget that you were loved, Anders: deeply, strongly and tenderly. Never, ever let anybody make you believe otherwise. Even far away, I'll always be your husband._

_I would have given anything to see your face once more – to spend one more night with you._

_Whatever happens: stay strong, stay yourself, stay my clever fox and brace yourself the best you can for what is coming. Kiss my mother and Annie for me._

_I'm sorry._

_I love you._

_John_

The fear, like a hand around his throat, had tightened and tightened and by the time when his eyes read the signature at the bottom of the letter, Anders could barely breathe.  Blinded by grief, he destroyed the letter, tearing it up to shreds. "Fuck!! Shit!!!" he cursed in a raging cry.

He knew his husband enough to figure out that he wouldn't say " I have to try or die in the attempt" lightly. This meant that he would not give up, even if he had to sacrifice his life to do so.

The worst for the blond man was the helplessness. The letter had been written four days ago. A lot of things could happen in four days. He had no way to know if John was even still alive. He felt his eyes misting with tears when he thought of his dream. "I don't have much time." These were the exact same words John had told him. Had the dream been a way for his husband to say a last farewell?

Anders hammered his fist on table. John couldn't be dead, he told himself. Anders would have felt it. He would have sensed it.

 

With his guts twisted, he grabbed a pile of paper sheets and opened his ink bottle. He hastened to write the letters to the eight other clans, including to his brother Tyrone, currently lord of Aklànd.

Then, the great consort called Carl to his room and gave him instructions to send the messages.

When the guard left, the aklànder found himself alone once more. He ignored Tiolam trying to jump on his lap as she sensed her master's distress.

He stood up, slow and reluctant. His next task was the most displeasing one.

***

When a maid opened the door of Ann Mitchell's room, John’s mother was seated next to the fireplace with her lady-in-waiting, Annie and two other servants. They were laughing while doing their embroidering work.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, my lady," Anders apologized, mortified.

"Oh! Join us if you please, Anders," Lady Ann smiled. She had the same smile his husband did. "Annie was telling us a funny story about John and George when they were still little boys," she added, patting the empty chair by her side.  

Anders gulped, standing still and stiff. "A messenger just arrived from Archerwall with a letter from your son," he informed her.   

He watched her smile disappear.  He could see that she read the truth through his expression and a flicker of panic passed in her brown eyes.  "Is the news good?" she asked, her voice still calm and composed.

"No, madam, it isn't."  

"Tell me."

The consort saw her expression change from concerned to shocked and despaired as he repeated the content of the letter. When Anders finished his report, Annie punctuated it with a broken sob and all colors had left Lady Mitchell's graceful face.

Anders stepped forward and leant down to place a kiss on her pale cheek, honoring John's vow.  Lady Mitchell didn't say or do anything but search his gaze with teary eyes. Anders looked away, feeling incompetent and unable to give the woman any kind of comfort. He placed a light peck to Annie's cheek as well and left the room without a whisper.

He wrapped himself in his cloak and climbed the stairs leading to the top of the donjon tower. He locked his eyes with the horizon line to the south and dismissed with an aggressive tone anybody coming to remind him he had duties and tasks to accomplish. He would stay there until he would see his husband coming back or anybody else that could bring him news.

The messenger who had carried the missive was still in Brastàl and by the morning people would know what was happening in Archerwall. The news would spread quickly, passing from a house to the other, since nearly everyone in town knew someone who was gone with the army. According to John, the odds were that the North Hills army would be defeated and crushed. Soon enough, people would start searching for the responsible. Anders was the perfect target, the ideal scapegoat.  

But right now, the blond man wasn't scared for himself. All his thoughts were focused on his spouse. Was John afraid? Was he alone or did he have someone to protect him? Was he injured and suffering?  

And what about his brothers? Would Anders see them ever again?John hadn't said anything concerning Mikkel and Axl. Anders hoped that they were safe somehow.

After numerous attempts from the servants, advisors and also from Lady Mitchell to make the Great Consort come back inside instead of standing in the cold, they all seemed to have given up on him and he was left alone for long hours. It was perfect because he didn't want to see anybody.

In the middle of the night, Anders jumped when he felt arms circling his midsection from behind.

He looked down at his chest and even in the dim moonlight he recognized the feminine hands and dark skin tone of the arms hugging him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, dry without really meaning to.

"I'm comforting you," Annie simply said, her voice muffled in the fabric of Anders' hood.

"I don't need comforting."

"I beg to differ," she objected, holding him tighter, "and I need some too."

With a sigh, he turned around and took her in his arms properly.

"I didn't hear from Axl, but I'm positive he is fine," he told her, not sure if he should give her such hope.

She nodded and buried her face into the crook of his neck as he rocked her gently. Feeling drained and empty, he rested his bearded cheek against the young woman's temple. Anders never tried to comfort anyone before. It was less awkward than he always thought it would.  

They stayed there for a while, holding on to each other like two drowning shipwrecked,  until Annie suggested that they should both go to bed. Anders obeyed, but he didn't sleep that night. John's bathrobe had lost its scent and nothing could make him sleep except maybe having his husband in his bed for real, which was not bound to happen.

***

 

"The citizens know things are getting disastrous for our army and that we are losing Archerwall," Carl told Anders. "They will expect you to make a public apparition. I reckon it would be a good move if you want to keep their support and prevent it from turning into chaos."

Anders bent his head down and massaged his aching forehead with both hands.  "I don't give a damn about what citizens think of me," he groaned.

"Don’t you?" the guard inquired.

"Public apparition" were definitely not Anders favorite words right now. If he could, he would stay in the darkness of his bedroom and never come out for the rest of his miserable life.

He sighed. Self-pity was the most obvious reaction to what he was going through, but maybe not the solution. "Hm. Yes. I guess I should give a damn after all, if I value my life a little bit," Anders conceded.  

Carl nodded.  "I'll have five guards to accompany you to the temple. It should be sufficient."

"And if I don't come back from my little public relation trip, you'll know it wasn't enough," Anders snapped.

Carl shifted, uncomfortable as his lord stood up from his armchair like an old man and grabbed his cloak. "I can assign more men to your protection if it's your wish, Your Grace."

"No…I…Please, don't listen to me," Anders apologized. "I'm not really myself these days." Or maybe I just got back to being the prick I was before, he added in his mind as he followed the guard outside his bedroom.

"Given the circumstances, it's quite understandable, " Carl observed, forgiving.

"Maybe I should dismiss you," Anders pondered out loud as they went down the stairs.

"Dismiss me? Are you not satisfied with my service, my lord?" the other man worried.

"Your service is more than satisfactory, Allen," the great consort reassured him. "I just thought that you'd like to be allowed to travel back to Eelry - go back to your husband while you still can… do something I can't do myself."

"Your offer is very generous, Your Grace, and I do miss Daniel a lot," the tall man admitted, "but my duty lies here. I promised John I would watch over you until he comes back."

‘If he ever does’, was the unspoken words floating between the consort and the guard, none of them daring to say them out loud.  

Anders realized it was the first time he heard the name of Carl's husband. He never inquired about the guard's personal life. He could pretend that it was because he wanted to keep their relationship professional. But if he was being honest, it was more because, most of the time, he wasn't interested in knowing people's life: especially when those people were servants or guards. For him, they were only pawns in a greater game; their identity and purpose was summarized by the uniform they were wearing. Since his arrival in Brastàl, Anders had watched John interact with his subordinates and what he had first thought to be a device to attract sympathy and support turned out to be a real concern of the brunet for people around him, no matter their rank. Anders wasn't sure he would be able to be as selfless as his husband one day, but it had helped him open his eyes.

It had been raining during the day and the castle walls were veiled with fog.

"Do you… have heirs… I mean… children?" Anders asked the guard as they crossed the courtyard in order to get to the guardhouse. He wasn't sure he was doing this whole bonding-with-people-just –for-the-sake-of–it thing right, but this was the first question that came to his mind.

Carl kept on walking, like he expected his lord to take his question back. As no further statement came from Anders, he replied: "No. My husband and I postponed it for years, not really knowing why, but we discussed it lately and we are seriously thinking of adopting a baby next summer."

"John is nagging me with that matter as well," Anders confided.

"The great spouses are expected to get children as soon as possible. And since, in your case, you don't even have to wait for the nature to do her work, it's like you don't have any excuse to wait,"  Carl sympathized for Anders' lack of freedom.  

"Hm. I guess I should consider myself lucky that I’m not submitted to nature’s will.  If John had wedded a lady, she would surely be pregnant already," the blond man pointed out.  

"Don't you want children at all?" Carl asked, curious, with a side glance at the smaller man.  

The Aklànder pulled the door of the guardhouse open to let Carl in. "For now, I just want my husband back."   

***

"I prayed the spirits for your husband to come back to you," a woman carrying a little girl in her arms told him. She reached out to touch Anders' sleeve to attract his attention, but one of the guards stepped in between.  

The Great Consort had heard her. He stopped and ordered the guard to step away with an annoyed gesture. "Thank you for your prayers, they mean a lot," Anders said to the woman with a sad smile, taking her hand for a brief moment. He was sincerely touched by her kind words and to know that not all citizens were against him or plotting to assassinate him. He still heard a few insults coming from among the crowd assembled in front of the temple, but with the heavily armored guards surrounding the Great Consort, his detractors were less bold.

He had to show the people of Brastàl that he was staying strong despite everything – that their city wouldn't fall. The key was in the subtle dosage between confidence and grief.

"What happened to Lord John, mama?" Anders heard the little girl ask her mother as he walked away. "Why is he not coming back for his sweetheart? Are Uncle and Dadaìth not going to come back either?"

The candid question made Anders tear up, but he forced himself to swallow his pain right away as he walked to the temple's threshold.

He purified his hands in the fountain's water and asked the spirits to cleanse his husband's soul too, because Anders knew that John must already be feeling stained with the blood of the soldiers he had sent to their death.

Then, after he had disposed of a dozen gold pieces as an offering into the altar’s stoned bowl, he prayed to the spirit of fire, more fervently that he had ever prayed. He put all his might into asking Eri to be merciful and not to let fate cut to the roots a tree that barely had the time to grow and bloom. There were still so many kisses to give, so many nights to enjoy and so many laughs to share. And Anders still had to teach John how to swim properly.

At some point, Anders felt selfish for asking those things. The little girl in her mother's arms, she was also waiting for her father and her uncle. Anders saved a prayer for them, and also for all the other men in the North Hills army, even if, according to John's letter, there were not many of them left to pray for.

He thought of his country. These were the lands that saw him being born, growing up and marrying- he didn't want them to fall into the enemy's hands. The North Hills had John Douglas Mitchell as a leader by the spirits' will, and nobody had the right to usurp that power from its rightful Great Lord.

***

 

After the visit to the temple, Anders headed to the library. The official excuse was that he needed to prepare the castle's defense some more.  

 

Carl and Anders had reorganized the city’s troops, as John had asked his husband, but apart from the sixty-seven guards the Great Lord had left in Brastàl, the only other men they had found to complete the ranks were either very young recruits, inexperienced citizens who volunteered or retired soldiers they had had to call back. But was he really going to sacrifice a bunch of old men and fifteen year old boys to defend a castle?

Ranald Ferguson's geographical treaty was opened in front of the blond man on the reading desk at the page of the North Hills map.

Anders’ quick calculations had told him that for an army marching from the south border to Brastàl it would take about ten days, more or less, to reach its destination. Despite that, since he had no idea what was going on in Archerwall, he could not predict when Brastàl would be attacked and if it would be attacked at all.

As he looked at the map, his mind started to wander. He started evaluating how many days it would take him to travel from Brastàl to Archerwall giving the different roads he could take. He could leave in secret and ride to the south, pull his husband out of this mess himself.

But he wasn’t allowed to leave. He was the lord of this castle, bound to defend it.

On the other side….. he was also bound to John, not the Great Lord but the man. He was his husband, and this was a fact, no matter what titles had been bestowed on them both.

"My Lord Mitchell!! Your Grace!!!" a voice called him as running footsteps approached toward the library.  

"For the spirits' sake, what is going on!?" Anders asked the dishevelled boy when he appeared in the doorframe.

"There is…the guards…they said…the docks…horsemen!!!" the stable boy panted.

"Breathe Kieran," the lord ordered, walking up to him and putting hands on his shoulders. "Take three deep breaths and then, try to repeat the same thing in a complete, understandable sentence."

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," Kieran apologized, doing his best to keep calm and catch his breath. "Chief Guard Allen sent me to fetch you. The guards on the south watchtower saw horsemen approaching on Carraig's road. Those men are crossing the river with the ferry boat as we speak."

"Horsemen… you mean soldiers?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

“Enemies?”

“No.”

"From which clan's army are they, then?"

"I don't know- the guards didn't tell me. Chief Guard Allen just told me that you had to be informed immediately. "

"Thanks Kieran," Anders breathed, walking out of the room at once, his heart speeding in his chest.  

He left the castle and ran across the courtyard, swift and hasty as a wind gust.

He ran up the stairs of the watchtower and the guards bowed down as soon as they saw him.

"I've been informed that there are men approaching the castle," Anders said, looking over the rampart, but the horsemen were currently hidden from his sight. They could be behind the docks' fishermen shacks if they just crossed the river.

"Yes, my lord," Carl confirmed. "There is about twenty of them, and from what we saw, they are holding the blue and green banner and the black and red one."

"Johnson’s and Mitchell’s clans" Anders said under his breath, keeping his eyes focused on the road. The small contingent emerged from behind the shacks and galloped up the road toward the castle. John was coming home at last.

With his heart beating a bit faster with every meter they rode, Anders tried to spot his husband in the group. As they approached, he recognized Anmoch: his older brother's black warhorse. Mikkel was indeed in its saddle, leading the group.

"Open the gates for Lord Johnson!" Carl shouted to the guards down the wall.

Following Mikkel closely and holding the Mitchells' banner, George was riding on a labor horse. He held by the bridle a very familiar grey mare, galloping at his horse's side.

None of those men were the one Anders had been waiting for.

John was nowhere to be seen and Pessa was coming back without a rider. At the realization that something might have happened to his husband, Anders felt his heart drop and sink like thrown over a cliff and into the ocean's icy water.

 

 

 

 

_**to be continued...** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys. I look forward to read your reviews. :)


	6. Out of Duty or Cowardice?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lot of thanks and kisses to my wonderful collaborators and fellow britchell worshippers : Katyushha and Dragon4488.

"No… please… not him… not John… anybody but him….please."

Anders wasn't sure who exactly he was pleading as he went down the stairs of the guard tower. He was stiff and unresponsive to the world around, like a training dummy receiving one arrow after another through its wooden chest. He had to get to the castle's courtyard to greet the horsemen who just crossed the gate, but he felt like it was beyond him to even walk.

 _This is a mistake… it's not what was supposed to happen…_ Of course, he should have expected that his husband might never return from the campaign. It was always a possibility. But he had never accepted it as a probability, even after the disastrous last letter he had gotten from his spouse.

The first person Anders saw when he emerged in the courtyard was George. The guard jumped down his horse and took something from inside his saddle. The guard’s face looked decomposed with grief. The sadness seemed to deepen even more when he laid his eyes on Anders.

The consort froze when he saw what object George was carrying in his pale hands.

His eyes blank and his expression closed despite the taste of acid fear on his tongue, Anders watched his husband's best friend approach him and kneel down on the muddy ground. George inclined his head and held above his head a very recognizable golden torc for Anders to take. The blond man knew too well what this gesture meant.

The Great Lord had fallen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anders refused to touch the metal object. He would not acknowledge his husband's death. He was not able to do such thing in front of all these people.

Anders was a master when it came to concealing the strongest emotions and no one there could have guessed how panicked he truly was.   

As Anders didn't move, George lifted his reddened eyes to the Great Consort, still holding out the torc for the aklànder. "I'm so sorry, " George breathed, but Anders simply stared back, like those words didn't have any meaning to him.

Mikkel walked up to his unreactive brother and placed a hand on his shoulder. It didn't take more to snap Anders out of his trance.  He jerked at the touch, like stung by a hornet and Mike withdrew his hand.

Anders gulped and when he spoke, his voice came out croaky and raspy: "Where is my husband?"

It was not a question but an order - a firm demand for answers.

"Listen, Anders…" Mike began, reaching for his sibling's shoulder once more, but Anders flinched and stepped back before the taller man could touch him again. Anger was swelling, like a ball of fire inside the consort's stomach, and then it grew so intense that it expanded until it filled his throat. Mike's expression changed to mute bewilderment when he saw Anders' gaze darkening.

"Where.is.MY.HUSBAND??!!!" the blond bellowed, detaching every word in a crescendo from groaning to yelling. The last word echoed between the courtyard's walls and nobody dared to move or speak for long seconds.

It's Lord Johnson who finally broke the silence. "He's been taken captive by the enemies. There is nothing we could do and there is nothing we can do for him now."

The anger was still there, but it gave way to consternation as Anders turned his head to search in George's gaze for confirmation. The guard had stood up as Mike spoke and he nodded as a reply.

"How? … When?..." Anders stuttered. His legs were failing him, but he set his teeth in determination. He would not cry, not in front of Mike or anybody else here.

"I don't think we should discuss it here," Lord Johnson pointed out, taking a look around. The other soldiers who had arrived with the small contingent were watching the husband of their former ruler with various expressions on their faces, from indifference to sadness or curiosity.  

Anders ignored them. "Where is Axl?" he asked.

"Hopefully safe. I sent him with a small escort to Leirwick. He has the instruction to take a boat, sail back to Aklànd and place himself under Ty's protection," Mike informed him.

"Anders!?" a voice called from the castle's main door, at the other end of the courtyard. Anders turned around to see Lady Ann standing there, worry painted over her face. He understood that, just like him, she would not believe something could have happened to John; not until she would hear the words… and it was up to Anders to tell her and break her heart. Was there more irksome task to accomplish in this world than have to tell a mother that she would never see her child again.

Anders took the golden torc from George's hands. The muscles of his jawline were so tense as he crossed the courtyard that he thought his teeth would shatter like porcelain under the pressure.

There was no way to sugar-coat the news or to lessen the shock he was about to cause. He still had the courage to stand in front of her, not flinch, keep his voice from shaking and look her in the eyes when he told her: "your son has been taken captive. I'm sorry."  

She let out a short, strangled cry and hid her mouth with a trembling hand. Her servants held her by the elbows to prevent from collapsing to the stoned floor. It was not important that she was Lady Ann Mitchell of Brastàl or that her son was a grown man- right now she was just a mother whose baby had been taken from her.

Anders should have stayed and comforted his mother-in-law, but to see his own distress reflecting in her hazel eyes - it was too much for him to bear.

Anders noticed Annie standing behind Lady Ann, her face already bathed in tears.

He grabbed her by the arm without ceremony and dragged her away in the hall.

"Give this to your mistress," he ordered to the crying maid, putting John's torc in her hands. "I don’t want to be its keeper."

The sound of the women's loud mourning accompanied Anders all the way through the Great Hall to the staircase like a ball and chain.

Every step felt like climbing a mountain and he was exhausted when he got to his bedroom. Tiolam was curled up on the middle of bed, sleeping. She didn't even wake up when Anders took his silver torc off and tossed it on the mattress. He envied her. He wanted to fall asleep and only wake up when the pain would have lessened a little. But it would not happen. He would feel every second of it.

He stood by the window and looked outside. It was just another sunset like there had been an infinity of them since the beginning of the world. This one didn’t look different than the others. But the consort’s own world had been turned upside down and the sun was too far away to be sensible or to understand the extent of Anders’ loss.

“ _I had surely done horrible things in the past to deserve this,_ ” Anders thought. Was it because he had abandoned several girls after they had given their bodies to him that he was now condemned to lose the only person he had ever fallen for? He had opened his heart to a lover, and as a result, he had given life a perfect access to stick a knife right in the middle of it.

He watched the sun sprinkle gold coins on the Quigley river before painting the hills in pink, then purple, before opting for a dull blue. Anders stayed there long after the darkness claimed the whole landscape as its own.

The bedroom remained silent until Anders heard footsteps and voices in the corridor. The door opened and closed. Candles were lightened up, but Anders didn't even bother turning around to see who had entered without asking permission. He didn’t have to. Only one person would allow himself to be so intrusive.

Tiolam was wide awake now, because Anders heard that kind of snorting snarls she did when she was angry and defensive.

"Tiolam!" Anders called his pet.

"What is that?" Mike asked.  

The fox jumped down the bed and hid behind the consort's legs and Anders understood his brother was speaking about her. She lowered her head and snarled some more at the stranger man who had walked in, uninvited, in her master's room.

"John's birthweek gift to me," Anders explained, still looking outside at the lights of the oil lamps coming through the windows of the boatmen's houses on the riverbank.  

"You should get rid of it. Wild animals can be unpredictable and dangerous."

"I just think they have more intuition than we do when it comes to sorting the good from the bad," the blond man remarked. "What do you want, Mikkel?" he asked, not trying to conceal the annoyance in his voice. He needed to be left alone. "Were not the refreshments or my servant wenches to your liking?"

"They were. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Thanks for your consideration," Anders answered in an icy tone. His relationship with his brother had always been tense; cautious at best. The list of the grudges they held against each other was long enough it could put some of John’s military treaties to shame. Moreover, Anders knew his older sibling enough to know that any attempt of kindness from him surely hid something else.   

His brother would not leave Anders’ room until he got whatever he was looking for.

The consort sighed. "You can take something to drink," he offered for the sake of politeness, turning around long enough to gesture toward the table and the half-full bottle of whiskey. He reported his attention to the window again and heard Mike pouring himself a glass and sit down in a chair. Tiolam seemed to have calmed down a little and she sat on the floor next to Anders' feet, still observing the other man.

"I guess that you must be worried for your future, now that your husband is missing," Mike pointed out.  

Anders didn't reply right away. He realized that, on the contrary of what Mike seemed to think, he wasn’t preoccupied by his own situation. It was unusual. Normally, he would have thought of himself first, but in truth, most of his thoughts had been focused on his other half.

"Since you are here, you can make yourself useful," Anders told his brother leaving his observation spot in order to walk to the table and take a seat across the other lord. "You can tell me what happened to John, to start with. I deserve to know: I'm his consort and…" He was about to add " _I'm his lover,_ " but he figured out he better keep this information from his brother.

It was Mike's turn to sigh. "It won't change anything if I tell you."   

"I don't care," Anders insisted. "John already told me a lot in his letters: about the invaders in their ships and the nomads helping them. I want to know what happened after that."

The brown-haired man considered his little brother’s request for a moment. "Fine, I will tell you what you want to know," Mike agreed, leaning back in his chair. 

"Even after the reinforcement troops arrived from Greenlea, things got from bad to worse. It was too little too late. We were losing Archerwall. Soon the city would be surrounded, blocking any safe exit to retreat. The thing was that John didn't want us to call a retreat and abandon the city. He wanted us to fight to the last man. I tried to reason with him. We knew that if we stayed there, we would all be slaughtered to the last one. John didn't have any control over the soldiers anymore. They all thought the Great Lord had gone mad, and Duncan did everything to feed those rumors. A lot of the soldiers were afraid and they had already betrayed John to follow Duncan. I didn't want to take part in the mutiny,  but I didn't want to die in a trap like a rat either. Because it was the fate that waited for us if I didn't find a way to get Axl out of this mess. I found the last men from my own army and from Brastàl's one who were still loyal to John and I convinced them to follow my lead. The last time I spoke to John, he gave me his blessing to leave the city. He ordered George to come with me and he entrusted me with the golden torc. I tried to convince John to come with us, but he refused."

As Mikkel narrated the last hours of Archerwall and the North Hills army, Anders had to refrain himself from gripping the edge of the table in an attempt to not fall into the precipice his brother's story had opened under his feet. It seemed like, in his last moments, John had given up on everything: given up any hope and even his will to come home to his husband.

"Later, the enemies managed to enter the city by a breach in the wall we had tried to rebuild so many times. I fought my way to the Great Lord's quarters one last time," Mike went on. "I couldn't resign myself to let him be killed there. But when I entered his chamber, the only thing I found was his squire. The poor lad was lying dead on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. I looked through the window and I saw nomad men dragging John away."

Anders had a thought for the squire. He had never liked Ruaidhri, but the boy still didn't deserve such a death. The boy had remained loyal to his lord until the very end and he had paid it with his life.  "Was he still alive when they took him away?" the consort asked, referring to his husband.

"I don't know. Probably," Mikkel replied, shaking his head. "I couldn't exactly follow them and verify. I managed to leave the city in one piece and keep the golden torc with me."

"I see where your priority lies," Anders snorted, standing up and walking to the hearth. "You didn't even try to help him. Just took the gold and ran away like a thief."

Mike frowned at his younger brother's harsh rebuff. "You, of all people, dare to call me a coward? That's rich," he defended himself. "I was alone against an army. I would have liked to see what you would have done in the same situation."

Anders locked himself up in a despondent silence, leaning forward against the mantelpiece with his head resting on his forearm. He stared down at the burning logs. The nomads weren’t famous for their clemency. They took trophies from the dead bodies - heads or other body parts, but they rarely took live prisoners.

"What is going on with you?" Mike observed, perplexed. "I thought you'd be … relieved. But it seems like nothing can please you. You get a husband: you are angry about it, and now that you are rid of him you still sulk."  

Anders stiffened and snapped his head around to glare at the other man. "Do you even realize what you are saying!?" he hissed, his nostrils flaring with anger. "How can you be such an insensible arsehole!?"

Mikkel wasn't impressed by the blond's fit of temper; he was quizzical and annoyed more than anything else.  "Don't be unfair, Anders," he admonished him. "You know I had a lot of respect for John, something you lacked yourself. It is a very regrettable loss for me and for the whole country, but there is nothing we can do about it, unless you tell me you have the power to raise an army from ashes to invade the plains. I regret to say that, but you can consider John dead. If the nomads haven't killed him yet, they will sacrifice him to their red god."

Glued in paralyzing fear, Anders' heart fought to keep beating. The images of his nightmare, the one he had before John left, flooded his mind again. The red man had abducted his husband. Anders straightened his shoulders, trying to give himself a steady composure even if he felt like the complete opposite. Losing it in front of his older brother was a mistake he would not forgive himself. "My husband won't be dead to me until the day I get to carry his corpse to the funeral pyre with my bare hands," Anders declared, in a slow and firm tone.  

Mike seemed intrigued by his sibling's behavior. "I just don't understand, Anders. What is this all about? Shouldn't you be celebrating your long awaited freedom?" he asked. "Unless…," Mike added, leaving the last word in suspension, as if a sudden explanation had stricken him.  

Anders felt his forehead cover with cold sweat. He was trapped. "Unless what?" he asked, hoping Mike hadn't guessed.  

"Unless what we hear in Aklànd is true and John really seduced you."

"He didn't seduce me," the blond man mumbled. His lie sounded weak to his own ears, and obviously, it did the same to Mikkel's, because the brown eyes widened in realization. "Oh dear spirits!” the lord exclaimed. “It's true, then!! I can't believe it! After all the whining and all the tantrums you threw me because you had to marry the guy, you had the nerve to actually fall in love with him!"

"Not everything is about you, Mikkel," Anders groaned, his face red with embarrassment and anger as he tried to fight back before retreating behind thick walls.

Since the beginning of the conversation, Anders couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was off. While Mikkel was his usual control-freak self, there was something careful and hesitant in the way he spoke to him. There was a zone of shadow, a blank space in Mike's story. Mike knew his little brother well, but it also worked the other way round. Anders wouldn't hesitate to play that card to get himself out of trouble. This was the perfect moment to bring it up and distract Mike from the current subject.

"You are not telling me everything, are you, brother mine?" Anders asked, eyes narrowed, as he walked back to the table. "Why are you here instead of being on a boat back to your own castle? What do I have to do that you are afraid I will screw up!? Where is the rest of the army, Mikkel?"

Mike's pupils twitched. "The men I brought back with me – it's what is left of the army."

"That's not possible," Anders retorted, having noticed the sign of nervousness in his interlocutor’s eyes.  

"Yes. It is," Mike objected. "The majority had been killed. It's been a real massacre, believe me. The survivors were dispersed. They either fled back to their own lands with their lords or rallied under Duncan's orders."

"And where is Duncan as we speak?" Anders wanted to know.

This time, Mike's gaze dropped as he avoided looking at his brother. "On his way to Bastàl," was the flat answer.

Anders stepped back and his palms gone moist and cold. "What!?"

"Yes. He is coming to take the torc and the title of Great Lord: but you won't let him," Lord Johnson claimed, standing up and facing the blond man.   

Anders' voice came out half-strangled: "So, you are telling me that while we are here sipping whisky, the man who wants me dead is heading to this city with an army following behind!?"

"Brace yourself, because I'm afraid it's not all," Mike warned him.

"Surprise me," Anders sneered. With the news he had gotten today, he had a hard time believing the other lord could come up with something worse.

Mike reached inside of his coat and took something in his inner pocket. When he opened his hand, the Great Consort saw a strand of his own hair lying on the middle of his brother's palm, or so he thought. Now that he looked closer, he realized it couldn't be the one he had given to John, because that one was way bigger and longer. "Where did you get that?" he asked, looking back at his brother's face.

"The foreign enemies coming on the ships to attack us: it took us a while to get the body of one of them. The nomads always hastened to take them away. John mainly wanted to see how their armors, shield and weapon were made. We brought the corpse to the Great Lord’s quarters, but when Axl took the man's helmet off, we all could see he had yellow hair and eyes pale like cloudless sky. He looked like you, Anders. The resemblance was….striking."

"No," Anders breathed, shaking his head in denial, his eyes glued to the piece of hair like it was a live snake.  

"We were only a few in the room when we made that discovery," Mikkel continued, "but John seemed to be the most troubled of all of us. He made us swear to keep it secret. George and I hid the body and burnt it during the night."

Anders let himself fall on a chair. He had thought it couldn't get worse. He was so mistaken. He glanced in his brother’s direction. "But I guess that since you are showing me that hair, it means that there had been others and that the secret is out."  

"Yes," the older lord admitted. "On the following day, the soldiers captured two of the invaders. We couldn't prevent our soldiers from beheading them in retaliation. Their heads were displayed on pikes for everybody to see. And to Duncan's greatest delight, it wasn't long before your name started to be whispered among the army."

Anders looked around his bedroom, already making a mental list of the things he had to take with him. He had heard enough to know that his life was at stake and that he had to leave this castle, and leave soon. Without a word, he walked across the room to his oaken chest, Tiolam on his heels. He opened the chest to grab a large leather bag he always used for hunts or long journeys and started shoving clothes inside it.

"What are you doing?" Mike questioned, alarmed, as he joined the blond man.

"I'm leaving."

"You must be joking."

Anders stopped packing to glare at the brown-haired man.  "Do I look like I am?"

"You have to stay," Mike objected. "I get that you are afraid, Anders, but you have a duty toward this country. You have to ensure the regency until there is a new Great Lord on the throne.”

"Even if I wanted to be Lord Regent: Duncan won't let me," Anders pointed out.

Mike snatched the bag out of the blond’s hands and slammed the chest closed to prevent him from packing any further.

"Give that back!" the blond grunted.

"I'm sorry if it doesn't suit you," he apologized, keeping the bag out of Anders' reach,  "but I'm thinking of your best interest here, brother.”

"No. You're thinking of your own interest, like you always did," Anders accused him. "You think you know better what is good for me and now you try to play me as your obedient puppet, just like our stepmother did."

"Oh spare me your whining," Mike snorted. "I freed you from her, didn't I?!

"You freed me when it was convenient for you to do so. Because why didn't you do it earlier, I wonder?"

"I'm doing what's best for all of us. I'm thinking of our clan, our family. The reputation of the Johnsons' name, our freedom and our place in this federation are at stake.”

The brothers held each other's glare like two wild bulls ready to charge.

"In case you haven't noticed yet, this federation is already perishing," the blond man pointed out. "I know you dream to see a Johnson on the throne, so you probably want me to remarry and use the legitimacy I have as John’s former spouse to submit my name at the election. But don’t you see it won’t work? I have no legitimacy whatsoever. No chieftain is going to have a sudden brain explosion and vote me in, no matter how many political intrigues you foment. May I also remind you that I'm not a Johnson anymore. I'm a Mitchell and I have to think of my own clan now. And besides, you know I'm no Great Lord material. Actually, I thought you'd be the first one to point it out."

"Fine!" Mike waived. "Since we are spitting out the sad truth to each other's face: no I'm not exactly pleased that you are the one being at the head of the country right now! You never had what it takes to be a ruler. But the spirits somehow chose you to be the Great Consort. So I'm here to put some sense into your thick skull and make sure you do the right thing. Do you really want to have Duncan being elected without encountering any opposition?”   

"Duncan will be elected anyway," Anders predicted.

"That's not what John would have wanted – to see his husband flee instead of facing the enemy."

These were the only words needed to unleash Anders' rage. "Shut up!" he yelled. "You don't know that! You don't know him like I do!"  

"Oh and why is that? You think you know his views on the future of his country just because you let him shag you?"

Anders' fist aimed for Mikkel's face, but the older lord was faster and he grabbed the shorter man’s wrist before he could punch him.  "Try to be reasonable, Anders," Mike growled, squeezing his brother's arm to the verge of pain.

"Staying here and getting murdered by Duncan's henchmen, it is indeed a very reasonable option," Anders let out in a humorless chuckle, trying to struggle out of the grip.   

"You really want to escape alone in the hills during winter?"  

"Do you see any other solution?"  Anders asked, massaging his wrist when his brother let him go.

"I won't let you do that mistake," the warrior insisted. "Grow a pair and defend your castle. Find allies. You have me on your side already. At least, do something to convince the chieftains who voted for John to help you. You have soldiers and walls: use them. "

"What a genius plan!" Anders rejoiced, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "And this way, I'll probably get assassinated by the angry mob inside this city's walls. Some of Brastàl’s citizens already want me dead." He grabbed the blond strand of hair Mikkel had left on the table and waved it in front of his brother's face. "You see that? The soldiers you brought back here with you did too. I don't doubt the whole town will learn about this pretty soon. Don't you think Brastàl's people won't hold me responsible for the slaughter of their loved ones? They will be convinced I planned all of this, since the invaders happen to look an awful lot like I do. Can't you see that it gives them the perfect excuse to lynch the witcher!?," he argued, before throwing the yellow hair back on the table. 

Mikkel was inflexible. "You have a duty to your country. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Yes, you are right, I have a duty to this country, and it is to bring back its rightful Great Lord."

"When did you turn into a nutcase, brother? What are you planning to do?” Lord Johnson inquired. “Go to Archerwall alone, knock on the door and ask the nomads to give you your husband? Maybe if you ask politely, they will."

Anders didn't dignify it with an answer. And Mikkel was right. In fact he had no plan whatsoever, and going to the south now probably seemed completely mad. But he had to try. He couldn't leave John in the nomads' hands. If there was still a chance to save him, he had to take it. He was scared, shit-scared in fact. But leaving John to endure this horrible fate was even scarier.

Mike was still keeping his bag hostage and the older man was now pacing in the bedroom before Tiolam's wary eyes. "If you refuse to stay here and assume your functions, I should send you to safety. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do," Mike pondered.  

"I'm major and married," Anders pointed out, determined not to let his sibling take control. "Therefore, I'm no longer under your guardianship. I don't have to go to Aklànd just because you ask me to."

But it was like his brother didn't even hear what he had to say. "You are grieving your husband. It’s unexpected, but it's a reality we have to deal with. It's obvious that you don't have the strength now to defend your castle and your estate. I'll make you escort to Aklànd tomorrow morning and take things in hands myself."

"No," Anders objected.

"Anders," Mike scolded, and the blond man hated the sounding of his own name when said in that tone.  "You are not in the state to make decisions. Cry over your lover’s fate if you will, but someone has to take actions."  

The anger had not completely left and it didn't take much for it to resurface.  "Who do you think you are?" Anders fumed. "Because you are my older brother you think you can order me around like you always did!? I have news for you: I'm the lord of this castle. You are under my roof and I'm the Great Consort of this country, so, technically, I don't have to listen to your patronizing bullshit. You are the one owing me obedience."

Anders decided he had heard enough for at least a week. He would find a way to leave, with his bag or without it. He headed up to the door, but when he opened it, the exit was blocked by a massive living obstacle.

"For your safety, I can't let you leave your room, sir," the burly man outside told him.

Anders recognized Derrick: Axl's personal bodyguard. Mike had obviously decided to keep him instead of sending him away with Axl.  Anders could see why now: it was to keep him prisoner inside his own castle.

 "Make way," Anders demanded in a growl, but Derrick just stepped forward to prevent the blond man from passing through the doorframe. "I'm sorry, sir. I can’t."

The Great Consort understood that the man was taking his orders from Mikkel only and would not listen to him. To Anders, Derrick had always been a simpleton with the intelligence of an average sheep, but the guard could still knock him out without breaking a sweat. As he peeked into the corridor, Anders saw another soldier from Aklànd's castle guard standing there. He didn’t stand a chance against Derrick, let alone against him and the other guard. He had to find a better strategy if he wanted to escape his room.

Anders pointed at Derrick’s face with a threatening finger. " For you it's 'Your Grace', not 'sir'," he commanded.  

"Well, with all due respect, _Your Grace_ , you are not allowed to leave the room."

"Aye. I got that, but I’m pretty sure you are not allowed to punch me unless I try to leave, do you?"

Derrick narrowed his eyes but nodded.

"In that case, let me tell you this," Anders went on, "you should have your brain checked. The little you already had probably turned into horseshit because I can smell the stench from here."

He patted the guard's shoulder with an insolent grin. "It's only a piece of friendly advice: for your safety." Anders saw Derrick's knuckles turn white as his fingers tightened around his war hammer. The blond man closed the door and turned around to see that his older brother had taken place in John's armchair in front of the hearth, his feet propped on the low table.

"Where were we?" Mike asked. "Oh yes, you reminded me of our respective positions in the federation. If it's what you want, you can order me, then." The tone was taunting, but Mike eyed Anders with a mix of concern and exasperation, like one would look at a kid who played with a toy too big for him.  The blond stayed mute but he suddenly got an idea when he snatched the empty cup from his brother's hand. He walked back to the table and he made sure to turn his back on the other lord as he poured him some whisky, so Mike wouldn't see what he was slipping in his drink.

Anders served himself some whisky in the goblet Ty gave him. He walked back to the fireplace and handed Mike his cup. "Shut your mouth and drink," he ordered.

"Yes, my liege," Mike replied, raising his cup in a mocking toast.

Ignoring him, Anders sat in the other armchair and watched the older man from the corner of his eye. He saw with satisfaction his sibling taking several unsuspecting gulps. This was good whisky with a strong taste. His sibling wouldn't notice what Anders had pulverized between his fingers and added to the alcohol. The consort should have probably felt guilty for that, but his brother had been such a major prick tonight that he deserved it. All Anders had to do was wait for the effects to manifest themselves.

"Are you beginning to see sense now?" Mike asked when he was done emptying his cup.  

"We will see," Anders replied in a vague answer, observing his brother’s reactions and reflexes slowing down.

After a few minutes of silence, Mike seemed to zone out. He frowned, and then his eyes widened as he stared at a point somewhere on the carpet. "What is happening to the floor?" he asked Anders.

The blond man couldn't help a small smirk of victory. "What do you mean?" he inquired with false concern.

"It's changing color…" Mike breathed, fascinated.

He knew his brother had never experimented with Olaf's magic mushrooms, but Anders had, and he knew that Mike would be so caught in his imaginary world that we would be less of a nuisance now. He took the opportunity to stand up and take his bag from under his distracted brother's legs.

 "Describe me what you see," Anders told Mikkel, keeping on filling the travel bag with various things he would need for his journey to Archerwall, as Tiolam followed him around the room with nervous yelping. Anders had to keep his brother speaking, so the guards wouldn't know that something was wrong and barge into the room.

Mike kept on sputtering about moving colors, animals with several heads and trees growing from between the floor's planking. Anders finished packing. He took care of hiding the goblet he had drunk from, or Derrick would wonder why Anders was not sick as well, giving that he had drunk from the same bottle. He took two long daggers that he hid under his kilt and he put on his cloak to hide the travel bag behind his back. Now he had to get past Derrick and the other guard.

Lord Johnson was now on his all fours, trying to catch something invisible on the carpet. It would probably be funny if Anders wasn't so anxious. He prayed all the living spirits for his plan to work. He called Tiolam, making sure she would follow him.

He took his best worried look and opened the door. "My brother is unwell. He needs medical attention now. I think someone put something in my whisky bottle. It may be poison."

Derrick peeked inside the room and he could indeed see that his lord was not in a normal state.

"I have to go fetch the healer," the blond man insisted.

"You think I'm going to let you get away like that?" Derrick grunted. He turned to the other aklànder guard and ordered him to go get the healer.

"He doesn't know where it is," Anders pointed out, and indeed, the other man looked puzzled.

"Then, you have to explain to him how to get there," Derrick pressed the consort.

"We are losing time! Brastàl is big, if he gets lost it can take hours and my brother might die!"   

"Ask a servant to go, then!" the burly man demanded, losing patience.

"They are all asleep downstairs," Anders lied.

Derrick hesitated for a long minute. "Fine," he decided, pointing his thick finger at the other guard, "You! You’ll go with him, and keep an eye on him. Lord Johnson said he must not leave the city."

Anders left toward the staircase with the guard following him. Tiolam stayed behind her master like a shadow. When they got to the first floor, Anders made sure to make a detour by the corridor where the bedrooms were. "You sure it's that way?" the other man asked, but Anders only nodded. He had to lead the guard as close as possible to his mother-in-law's bedroom. Slowly, he reached under his cloak and between the folds of his kilt to take one of his daggers. He was lucky that the guard was not wearing a helmet.

He took the first second of distraction from his escort to spin around all of a sudden and hit him over the head with the hard pommel of his dagger. Anders hadn't hit hard enough to knock him out, but enough to give him the time to grab the man and put the blade of his dagger under his throat from behind. "Don't scream, don't try to escape or I slice your throat," he whispered into the guard's ear. "I never did it to a human being  before, but I have a lot of practice with wild boars and they have a thicker skin than yours."The aklànder didn't try to struggle.

Still keeping the guard's throat under the edge of his blade, Anders stepped back, dragging his prisoner with him until he could knock on Lady Ann's door with the heel of his boot. A servant girl opened the door, Anders ordered her to go to bed and he pulled the guard inside.

"Anders!? What is going on?" he heard Lady Mitchell's voice worry.

The blond man pushed his prisoner to a chair and he noticed George presence in the room. The chief guard had his arms around Annie who was still crying. Anders ordered to all the other servants present in the room to leave the room and he kept only Lady Mitchell, Annie and George with him.  "Help me tying him up," Anders ordered George, still pointing his weapon at the man's throat. George obeyed without asking questions and soon, the aklànder guard was tied up to the chair, gagged with some bedsheets and pushed into an oaken wardrobe.

“Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t listen to what is going to be said in this room,” Anders told George with a pointed look.

George agreed reluctantly. “Sorry lad,” he told the soldier before taking his sword, knocking him off with the pommel and pushing the door of the wardrobe shut.

"What is the meaning of all this?" Lady Mitchell pressed her son-in-law. Grief had hardened her face features. She was no less beautiful, but she looked broken – like a doll forgotten outside under the rain and snow all winter.

Anders told them everything about Mike's report, the blond invaders and about his wish to go to the nomads' territory and do anything in his power to save John.

They tried to dissuade him at first, but they were soon interrupted by Carl, barging into the room, breathless. "Your Grace! That's a good thing you are here. I need to speak to you. A contingent of a dozen horsemen just arrived from the south and crossed the river," he told the Great Consort as Anders made sure to lock the door after him.

"The boatmen let them cross, at this hour!?" George frowned.  

"If they got paid, they had no good reason not to," Carl pointed out. "The reports say they wear the colors of the Duncans, the McCallums and the McGregors."

"Shit!" Anders cursed. "My brother didn't know Duncan  was following him so close behind."

"They must be at the castle’s gate by now," Carl urged. "Do I keep the gate closed or do I let them in? "

"Trust me, no matter what he is going to tell you, Duncan is not here in peace," Anders said. "He wants the Great Lord's torc and to see me in the river"s cage. He won't leave until he gets both."

"We will hide it, then," Annie decided, taking the torc from the velvet cushion where it had been placed, her eyes already scanning the room for options.

"No!" Anders stopped her, taking the torc from her hands and putting it back on the cushion. "He knows it's here. Let him have it. Nobody should die for a piece of metal."

"You want me to let Duncan in?" Carl asked, confused. "What about you?"  

"The rest of the army is on foot, but they will get here sooner or later. Among them, there are soldiers from Brastàl. I can't have them attacking their own city under Duncan's orders. If I resist, I am going to have to fight against Duncan's army from outside and the citizens from inside. I have only eighty soldiers and they can turn against me at any given moment. I don’t stand a chance.So yes, I'm going to let them in. But I'd be grateful if you could give us enough time to get out of the city…"

“I will give you as long as I can,” Carl replied, and he left the room right away.

Anders took a step toward his mother-in-law: "Come with me, my lady… and Annie," he added looking at the young maid.

"I'm too old to flee like that," Lady Ann objected with a stern look. "I would be a burden. And there must always be a Mitchell in Brastàl."

Anders turned to Annie, but she shook her head. "I will stay with my mistress," she decided. "I'm … not fit to venture in the wild either..."

"I’m escaping alone, then. Is it what you are telling me?" Anders inquired, scanning their sad and anxious faces. The silence that followed gave him the answer he needed. Only one being present in the room didn't seem to agree. Tiolam was rubbing her paws on the top of his right feet to catch his attention, like she wanted to dig a hole into his boot. He leant down to pick her up with a sigh. "I can't take you with me. You are not exactly a baby anymore, but it's too dangerous for you out there," he told the vixen, petting her head and pointy ears. She was as stubborn as him, and she still tried to cajole and coax. "No…. no amount of chin licking will change anything about it. I'm sorry," he told her, putting his pet in Annie's arms with regret.  He didn't want to abandon the fox in Brastàl, just like he was forced to leave his mother-in-law and his husband's friends behind, but the clock was ticking, Duncan was at the gate and the heartbreaking decisions had to be taken now.

"I will bring John back," Anders told the people gathered in the lady's bedroom, suddenly feeling a surge of heroism he didn’t know he possessed. "Clan Mitchell will not be dissolved. Not as long as I live.  But until I'm back, I order you all to disavow me publicly. Tell Duncan what a big bag of dicks I am. It should not be so tough to make up. After all, I just drugged my own brother. Tell Duncan I put you all under a spell. Hopefully, it will be enough for him to spare you if he thinks you are the witcher's harmless victims. "  

Lady Ann walked to the blond man and took his hands in hers. "I'll do as you order, my lord, but it pains me," she declared. "You are not the awful man you want me to describe to our enemy. You are a very brave one, and I understand why my John loved you so much."

"Oh no. You are wrong, my lady," Anders objected, before he planted quick kisses to each of the woman's hands. "I'm not brave. Ask my brother: he'll tell you what a coward I am. If I'm going in search of John, it's not out of bravery, but because I'm too afraid of a future without him."

George approached to clap the blond man on the shoulder. "If someone can save him, I think it's you."

"If he stays alive for someone, it's going to be for you," Annie emphasized.  

"May the spirits protect you, my son," Lady Mitchell blessed him, squeezing his hands for a last, brief moment, "now go!"

Anders didn't have the time to walk to the door that someone banged on it, calling him. Recognizing Carl's voice, George opened.

"You have to leave now!" Carl panted, grabbing Anders by the shoulders pushing him into the corridor. "The guards betrayed my orders. They let Duncan in. He is in the castle. Master Finn is with him in the Great Hall, but I don't know how long he is going to be able to keep him distracted."

Anders' heart started drumming. Now he was trapped between Dimwit Derrick and Duncan. When would this night finally be over?

He could already hear Lord Duncan's angry boar voice thundering orders from the foot of the staircase. "Annie, I'm going to need you," he whispered quickly, calling the maid. "At the very end of the corridor the other side of the servants' quarters there is a little storeroom, you know which one I mean?"

"The storeroom for the banquet dishes?" she asked.

"Yes, that's the one. As soon as you can sneak out of here, go to that storeroom. I'm going to meet you there. Hopefully, even if Duncan sees you, he won't pay attention."

"Why would he? I'm only a servant."

"Exactly."

The shouting voices were coming closer and Anders didn't have time to think before he rushed to the other end of the corridor and jumped in, feet first, into the laundry chute.

He did his best to secure his feet on the rocks on each side of the chute, his sweaty hands struggling to keep their grip. He heard Duncan's voice as the lord approached. The man was only a few meters from him now. Anders held his breath, even if Duncan would have never been able to hear it because he was busy yelling at George. "I know you are hiding him!!! Where is he!?"

"He is probably still in his apartments with his brother," George lied. " I don't think he left his room since he learnt what happened to his husband. Maybe you should respect his grief and leave him alone for tonight."

"'Grief' my ass. This man betrayed his country and he has to face its justice," Duncan hissed. "Get out of my way, Sands. I don't have any advice to take from you."

George must have stepped aside, because the rapid footsteps of the lord and his soldiers receded toward the staircase.

Anders started breathing again. Carefully, he began his perilous descent into the laundry chute. He had to admit that John had been reckless for having taken this way out more than once. He must have been very motivated to get away from him and their shared bed at the beginning of their marriage to take such extreme measure. Anders only had one floor do go down and he was convinced he would not make it alive until his feet were on the top of a heap of dirty bed sheets at the bottom.

Anders took off his boots, pulled his cloak's hood over his head and tiptoed between the beds of the snoring servants. He stopped dead in his tracks every time one of them moved in their sleep. When he got to the opposite side of the large room, he put his boots back on, took a candle and lighted it up in the hearth.

The corridor leading to the storeroom felt longer to walk down than the last time Anders had come here. The last time, it was the middle of the day and his hand was safely placed in John's larger one. Now the blond man felt vulnerable: hunted like a stag. Everything outside of the halo of light created by the candle was nothing but unfathomable darkness.

When he finally reached the door, Annie was not there yet. Anders searched through the objects he had shoved at random in his bag and closed his fist around the little rusty key. It was the most precious thing he possessed right now. He unlocked the storeroom door, got in, blew out his candle and he sat on the cold floor, waiting. John had promised him he would never need to use the secret passage: that everything was going to be fine. Anders couldn't be angry at his husband for not having kept his promise. Nothing of this was John's fault. On the other side, he couldn't help thinking that his spouse had been quite naive to think that they would get some sort of happy ending.

Every minute felt like hours, until there was a soft knock on the door and a feminine voice whispering his name.

"How long are you planning on hiding here?" Annie asked when Anders let her in.

"I'm not going to hide. I needed someone to help me move that dresser," he told the maid, pointing his finger at the large piece of furniture along the wall. The young woman had a puzzled frown on her face, but she still put her candlestick down to help the blond man.

Once the dresser was out of the way, Anders moved the wooden panel to the side, revealing the tunnel.

"I didn't know it existed," Annie marveled.

"It's a family secret. John told me about it before he left,” he confided. “Now that you know about it as well, you'll be able to get away if things become too dangerous here," he told her, pressing the key into her hand.

They looked at each other for a moment. Anders' farewell was caught in his throat and neither of them seemed to be able to find the right words. The consort was about to speak when they heard noises in the corridor. Annie's eyes widened with panic and Anders gulped.  There was scratching at the bottom of the door. The recognizable high-pitched yelp that followed made Anders react. "It's Tio!" he exclaimed. "What is she doing here?"

"I had put her in one of the guestrooms," Annie protested. "She must have found a way to escape!"

"Or maybe someone freed her; let's just hope this someone didn't follow her here."

The maid carefully cracked the door open, which made the fox yelp again and scratch the door with even more insistence. "It's very dark out there, but I don't think there is anybody else in the corridor."

"Let her in or she will draw attention on us," Anders exhorted the young woman.

Annie picked the vixen up and closed the door, but the little beast kept on whining until she put her in Anders' arms.

"She doesn't want to be parted with you," the maid observed.

"Looks like you won and I have no choice but to bring you with me," Anders sighed, scratching the vixen’s furry neck. His decision was rewarded by a lick under his chin. "You better stay still and quiet," he told his pet as he put her inside his travel bag. She curled up inside it without a fuss, only pushing to the corner of the bag when Anders shut the leather flap so her little black nose would point out of it.  

The blond man took a deep breath and a step toward the tunnel's entrance, but Annie grabbed the Great Consort by the sleeve. "Anders! I have something important to tell you before you go," she blurted out.

He frowned as he turned his head to look at her. "What is it?"

She lowered her gaze in shame. "I'm pregnant."  

For a second, Anders wondered if he had heard well. She gave him a grave look as she placed a hand on her lower stomach. He followed the gesture, speechless. It was the first time he noticed the subtle roundness of her belly. She was always hiding this part of her body under an apron, and he hadn't really paid attention to that detail. He looked back into her eyes. "Wha…what!?" he stuttered. "How!?"

"If we had time, I would like to make a drawing to explain how it happened, but we don't."

"I mean… the father… it's Axl, right?"

Her gaze dropped. "Yes," she confirmed, like an apology. "I'm carrying your niece or nephew."  

"Does John know!?" Anders couldn’t really point out why he had asked this, but it was the first question that came to his mind.  

Her lower lip quavered as she held back tears. "No, he doesn't. I disobeyed him; I lied to him to be able to see Axl, even if John had warned me that it was not a good idea. Apart from you, only Lady Mitchell knows."

"What about Axl?"

"He is engaged to Abigail Blackwood. He is going to get married. He must not know about this baby."  

"And why telling me about this now?" Anders inquired.

"Because… if you find John… alive. Can you tell him?" she pleaded, guilt and remorse in her shaking voice. "And apologize for me, please?"

"There is nothing to apologize for," Anders tried to reassure her, patting her shoulder in an awkward gesture. "It's my brother who should be sorry for not being able to keep it under his kilt."

The maid pulled a face.

"Hm," Anders emitted, sheepish. "It was not the right thing to say, was it?"

"You should go, Anders," Annie said.

"Yes, yes… I must go," he conceded. He threw her a last look before crunching down and entering the tunnel. "Everything is going to be fine. I will bring John back and everything will get sorted.”

"Good luck," the young woman told him, and as Anders made his way into the narrow space, he wondered if she had believed him. He couldn't blame her if she hadn't. He was not sure he believed himself.

He heard Annie place the wooden panel back against the wall to hide the entrance of the tunnel. He was plunged into darkness with only his hands against the crumbling walls and the sound of water dripping from the roof to guide him. "You didn't come back to me so I'm coming to you, maiseach," he murmured for John and to give himself some courage. He prayed that the tunnel had not collapsed after all those years of being unused, because if he found himself stuck in a dead-end, it would indeed be his death and his end.  

 

**To be continued…**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so many comments on the last chapter!! Thank you so much! You guys rock! Keep'em coming! :)


	7. The Island of Delights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Tags had been updated. Attempted sexual assault in that chapter. Stay away if you know it can upset you. I know it's very spoilery, but better be safe than sorry. 
> 
> Thanks to the sweet Kat who helps me and gives me feedback even if she leads a very busy life. I'm really grateful that she is still with me on that boat. Also, big thanks to Dragon4488 who fills my inspiration box with her drawings.

 

 

If Anders didn't know better, he'd swear he was stuck in one of his childhood nightmares.He had to guide himself in a tunnel full of unidentified forms of life;  rats and other kinds of underground creatures. Imagination tends to run wild when it doesn't have anything concrete to hold on to. The darkness turned any insect into a potentially lethal threat and every sound the one of death coming Anders' way.  The tunnel’s ceiling was higher now and he could stand, though he had to bend his back.  

At least, the tunnel had not collapsed and as he progressed, the air became more breathable. He couldn’t rejoice for long about that amelioration of his condition because the tunnel took an abrupt descent. Anders cursed as he nearly tripped and his boots splashed water around. He understood that he was in fact in an ancient underground canalisation.  He accelerated his progress, holding on to a thread of hope when his eyes caught the sight of a dim light farther ahead. As he followed the light, the water got deeper until the aklànder had it up to the knees. He heaved a sigh of relief and stretched his back when he finally reached a space where he could stand up. It was the end of the tunnel, but there was still no exit in view. When Anders lifted his head to look up, he saw a circle of night sky and moonlight. The tunnel ended at the bottom of a well.

If he didn't find a way to get out of there, he would he forced either to get back to the castle and face Duncan or to die from the cold there. Either way would mean condemning John to a certain death.

Anders tried to climb but his wet boots and the slippery walls prevented him from it.

Tiolam emitted a small protest from inside the bag, but he shushed her. He didn't know how far they were into the forest, and he still feared to be discovered.

As he paced at the bottom of the well, his foot hit something under the water and when he kicked it again, he heard a metallic clinking against the well's stoned walls. He followed the chain with his foot and when he got to close his fingers around the links, he realized it was probably his only way to climb out. He pulled on it to test its solidity. It seemed good so he gripped the chain and started his long and arduous climb. He muffled a few panicked curses when the chain slipped between his hands or when his arms’ muscles threatened to give up and to let him fall. He heaved a relieved sigh when his fingers finally found the edge of the well and he could pull himself out. He collapsed on his back on the forest’s ground, on a mattress of half-decomposed leaves, trying to catch his breath. He massaged his arms with fingers paralyzed with cold and winced from the pain.

Tiolam managed to extract herself from the leather bag and crawled up her master’s chest. She pushed on his cheek with the tip of her wet nose, like she was trying to revive him. He put a hand on her back and buried his fingers in her fur. He could not stay there, inactive. He was not in the water anymore, but his boots were soaked and the cold was a real danger to his life. Moreover, he was not far enough away from the castle to be considered safe from Duncan yet.

He helped himself up with the side of the well. His legs trembled from exhaustion and buckled under his weight, but he forced himself to stand up again.

Anders took in his surroundings. Through the trees, he could see the lights of the torches on the guard tower at the south-west corner of the city walls.  To the east, there were the boatmen’s shacks with their lanterns: some gloomy lights like treacherous wisps in the night.

Anders was not even sure where he should go. John was somewhere to the south, in the Great plains, and the shortest way to get to the south border was Carraig road. To take that road, he had to cross the Quigley river. But trying to cross the river  that night, or any other night, was a stupid idea. The boatmen all knew what he looked like. It was the best way to get caught. He had to go where he had better chances to go unnoticed. He could cross the Eachann river in Somerled, and then go to Longdale to take the ferryboat and reach the road to the south from there.

He put his pet back into his bag with careful precautions and made his way in the woods toward the city, a hand on the pommel of his dagger. It was dangerous for him to walk on the Mitchell road, but he was not familiar enough with the countryside to travel off road. It was either that or taking the chance of getting lost and wander in the hills for days. And there was also the bogs where more than one traveler had encountered the spirit of death.

Guiding his way with the guard tower torches, Anders soon found himself in the archery field. He could see the road from there: it was only thirty meters from where he was standing, but the steady rhythm of horseshoes prompted him to back up and hide behind the archery targets.

A group of horsemen, soldiers most likely, were coming his way. He curled into a ball behind one of the targets, hoping he could disappear under the ground. He slipped a hand into his bag and scratched Tiolam around the neck in an attempt to keep her calm and quiet.

The soldiers stopped nearby to speak. Anders couldn’t take the risk to look their way, but he estimated the number of soldiers to be four of five, probably men from the little contingent who arrived in Brastàl with Lord Duncan, Lord McCallum and Lord McGregor. Anders wished he could sneak back into the castle’s courtyard and get Ornàn. It would make his travel much faster, but pulling a stunt like that would be suicidal.

 

There were more sounds of galloping horses and Anders understood that another group of riders had joined the one that was already there. The men didn’t bother to keep their voice down and the consort could hear their conversation, which made him even more worried since it meant that they were closer to him than he first thought.

“We found no trace of him on the docks. The boatmen didn’t let anybody else cross after we did,” a man voice said.

“He is on foot. He can’t be far from the city,” another voice urged. “Keep searching.”

 

The dogs: that was Anders’ main concern now. He wondered if Duncan’s soldiers had thought of taking the  dogs to track him. There was a kennel behind Brastàl’s guardhouse, and John, like any respectable lord, owned a pack of hound dogs. Hiding from soldiers was one thing, but trying to run away from dogs was another. They had keener senses than Duncan’s idiot henchmen and they were trained to chase escaped prisoners and foxes, among other things. As an escaped man with a fox in his bag, Anders had every reason to dread them.

Fortunately, the riders dispersed and the silence fell on the forest again. Anders shuddered as he stood up with caution. The sooner he would put a few miles between him  and Brastàl, the better it would be. And maybe he could  even have the luxury of finding a quiet place to warm himself up and take some rest.

He pulled his hood over his head and left the archery field to reach the road, his hand still on his dagger, ready to draw it any second. He jogged along the road and headed toward Somerled.

The north wind rose, enveloping him like a second cloak. He didn’t appreciate it much since it was making him feel the cold in his boots with more accuracy. He ran for a while, but at some point, he had to slow down.

He was now a mile away from the city. He had not heard horses approaching or dogs barking. It was a good sign, but he still had to stay on guard. His teeth clattered as he threw glances above his shoulder now and then. By now, he couldn’t see the guard towers and their torches’ lights. He was alone with Tiolam, the moon, the hills and the wind.  

His worst enemy now, the most immediate threat, was his own body. Being the lord of Brastàl all winter meant that he had done a lot of paperwork lately and while he hadn’t got fat, he was not as in shape as he once was. He couldn’t allow his body to give up just now. Not before he had found a shelter. Everything hurt- the piercing cold in his wet feet, his back stiff from the walk in the tunnel, his arms and legs sore from the descent in the laundry chute and the climb into the well.  

“You are John Mitchell’s husband, for the spirits’ sake. Don’t be a pussy, Anders,” he admonished himself under his breath. The thought that he had to be worthy of bearing his clan’s name gave enough willpower to walk another mile. Tiolam pushed the leather flap and jumped out of the bag, lifting some weight from Anders’ shoulder and easing his walk. At first, he was worried she would try to run away, but she stayed close by.

The blond man reached the point where he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to find a shelter to rest. If he didn’t, he felt like he would fall to the side of the road and hope to be still alive in the morning.

A few meters ahead, he saw the dark rectangular shapes of ruined houses. It was the abandoned _clachan_ at the crossroads between the Mitchell road and the road leading to Somerled Temple. It was in one of those houses that John had found him during the thunderstorm, when Anders had tried to run away from Brastàl and his husband.

Anders made his unsteady way to that precise house. It was not the best hiding place, giving the fact it was close to the road, but he had little options.

The inside of the house hadn’t changed since the last time he had come here. The coal from the fire he and John had sat by were still in the old hearth. Anders found planks and a bundle of cloth half eaten by moths and tried to block the windows and openings as much as he could so the light of his fire wouldn’t be visible from the road. He also found a perforated washtub and put it in the hearth. He hoped that making the fire at the bottom of it would reduce the chances that someone saw its light.

He gathered every piece of wood and brushwood he could find and put them in the washtub. His shaky hands had a hard time activating the lighter, but he let out a long exhale when the fire crackled and spat sparkles.

He sat, removed his boots and placed them to the side of the hearth where they could dry as Tiolam snuggled to the side of his thigh. His toes were white and the skin had the appearance of candle wax. He brought his feet as close to the fire as he could without burning them. He inhaled sharply through his teeth with a mix of pain and relief when blood started coming back into his feet.

Once he was sufficiently warmed up, he wrapped himself in a spare kilt he pulled out of his bag. He curled up on the ground with his fox in his arms, next to the washtub where the last embers were casting soft red lights on the house’s ceiling. Exhaustion was dragging the consort into slumber and he felt like a little boy lost in the woods.

He tried to imagine what his life would be if the scene that had played in this house moons ago had ended in a different way. Where would he be now if he had refused to accompany John back to the castle and had kept on with his plan to flee to Pine Port? He would surely be in a real bed right now. His life would be less dangerous…. more stable and certain. There would surely be fewer people after him, wanting to cut off his head.

But Anders had made a different choice. He had chosen to follow John because he was afraid. He always had this fear- the worst of all: dying alone, forgotten, without anybody to hold his hand, nobody to say farewell to or to even bury his body. If he had left John to go on his own to Pine Port, Mikkel would have been forced to disown him. He would have been banned from his clan: with no friends or family anymore. He wasn’t exactly good at making relationships work with anybody. Staying with John had been his best guarantee of not finishing his days alone. Because they were married, John was entitled to stick with him, and Anders sensed his husband was the kind of man who kept his promises. Anders had realized that night that if he accepted to be a Mitchell, he would not be abandoned. That’s what had been his strategic reflection at that time, but now he was alone against the whole world.

If he had not left to Pine Port on the night of the thunderstorm, it was also out of curiosity. He had been intrigued to know how it would feel to be with someone who loved him. But soon, even without him noticing it, he was caught in his own little experimentation and when Annie had forced him to consider John’s feelings and to be nice to him, Anders had realized it was what he wanted. He wanted to be the reason why John smiled and laughed. His brother Ty was right. In the Great Lord’s arms, he had found something he had never thought he could have: a place where he belonged. But was all the current suffering worth it? Was it worth it to go through all of this to find that haven again? Yes it was: because what he was doing now, he wasn’t doing it for himself but to save John’s life.

***

 

 

Anders was awoken by several male voices surrounding him.

‘Damn it! That nasty beast bit me!” a gruff one exclaimed.

“Put it in the bag!” another one ordered.

Anders sat up, alerted. It was the morning, judging by the light coming from outside the ruins and there were three men in the house with him.

“Oh. He is waking up at last!” one of them, sporting a black bushy beard, commented as he walked to Anders and grabbed his face to squeeze it in his dirty hand. “I knew it was him! Look at who we found, guys: the fancy clothes, the hair yellow like buttercups and those blue eyes: it’s our good lord John’s little sweetie.”

Anders stood up, escaping the man’s displeasing hand on his face. The three men were standing between him and the exit. It required little intuition to know that they were up to no good and Anders was cornered.

“What are you doing here on your own, buttercup?” another man laughed, apparently finding that nickname hilarious. This one had a harelip and was carrying a fabric bag on his shoulder. There was something inside that struggled to get out with strangled and angry cries. He knew without a doubt what was inside. He would not let them hurt his pet. He reached to his belt to take his daggers, but they were gone.

“Are you searching for those?” the third man asked him, showing Anders his weapons with a nasty smirk that exposed a few broken teeth. That one was still a boy, in his late teens. He was obviously not the brightest light in the room, but despite his youth, he seemed to be the meanest of the three - quite large and muscular for his age.

“What do you want?” Anders growled like a caged animal as he stepped back, taking a defensive posture and his eyes scanning the room in search of something he could use as a weapon.

 

“Well, our main purpose was to rob you,” the bearded man explained. “We are going to get a good price for the fox’s fur and probably for your weapons and the stuff you have in your bag as well.”

“Don’t touch my fox!” Anders warned them, though he was one against three and he had absolutely no pressure point to exploit against them. He was at their mercy.

“In fact we are just paying ourselves back here. Your husband already owes us that money, and even more,” the thief with the harelip told him. “He threw our friends in prison and seriously damaged our business. We are starving because of him. It’s only fair we get compensation.”

Anders understood at once. These men had to be from the gang of poachers John and George had dismantled during the autumn. Obviously, there were members of that gang who still weren’t behind bars. The only thing more dangerous than a thief was a pack of angry thieves with nothing to lose. “You have no right to take my fox! Give it to me,” Anders ordered.

“I don’t think you are in a position to make demands,” Bushy-Beard commented. He seemed to be the elder of the three and the one in charge. “In fact, I think we should take even more than what we already have. After all, Lord Mitchell had been a real dick to us. I think we should take all the clothes you have on your lordly self as well,” he added, gesturing at Anders’ torso and legs.

They didn’t only want to rob him, but to humiliate him as well, and he would not let them. “You are going to have to kill me first,” Anders groaned.

“We won’t do such thing. It would suck all the fun out of it,” Harelip chuckled without humor. He seemed to be the one who was the most annoyed with Anders’ defiant behavior. He gave the boy the bag with Tiolam in it and he took one of Anders’ daggers. He approached the blond man, pointing the weapon at him. “Now strip down,” he ordered.

“No,” Anders objected.

“Please, _Your Majesty_ ,” the thief mocked him.

“Go fuck yourself,” the consort insulted him, spitting in his direction.

“Fine then,” the boy with missing teeth said, shoving a hand inside the bag and taking the squirming fox out of it by the scruff of her neck. “Strip now or I kill it right now.”

Anders could see in the boy’s dark eyes that his threat was serious.

His jaw clenched in frustration, the blond man removed his coat first and tossed it in Harelip’s direction. He did the same with his waist coat and when he removed his shirt, he shivered from the cold.  

The two older thieves wolf-whistled as they appraised their noble prisoner’s bare chest. They had been busy evaluating the value of his clothes, but now their looks were focused on him. “Seems like Lord Johnny paid himself a fine morsel,” one of them commented. “Look at that perfect, unmarred skin: not a scratch, a scar or even a spot! ” the other pointed out.  

Anders felt dirty under their greasy gazes. “Now that you have what you want, give me my fox and crawl back into the dirty hole where you came from,” he groaned.  

“Shut up,” Harelip bellowed, “You should be more respectful. I am the one with the weapon right now.”

“I want the kilt as well,” the bearded thief specified. “I’m sure I can have a good price for a good woolen fabric like that.”

Anders didn’t make a move to remove it. He stood still and didn’t even blink. He was hoping that if he gained time, help would come in any form. But the chances were thin. Who would want to help him now? The only people who cared about him enough to save him were either too far away or Duncan’s prisoners.  

“What do we do with him once he is naked?” the boy inquired, shoving a squirming Tiolam inside the bag again.

The bearded thief and Harelip exchanged a look.

Bushy-beard walked to the younger thief and patted his shoulder. “Tell me, Gus. Did you even have a man before?”

“You mean, bed one? Nah. Only the female prostitutes in Somerled,” the sturdy boy replied casually.  

The older thief laughed. “Well, you know what they say: ‘you are not really a man until you fuck one’.”

The said Gus turned his head to look at Anders when he understood where his chief’s train of thought was leading.

Anders’ shivers were not only from the cold wind anymore. The blond man took a step back but he couldn’t put more distance between him and the men because there was the wall of the house preventing from going anywhere.

 

 

 

 

“Think about it, lad,” Bushy-Beard encouraged the youngest thief. ”You’d get to put your dick at the same place the Great Lord did. That’s the chance of a lifetime!”  

“It’s our chance to make John Mitchell regret what he did to our pals,” Harelip insisted, taking the bag with the fox from Gus’ hands. “I don’t think he’ll be very happy when he’ll come back from war and learn that we played with his favorite toy. Don’t you want Mitchell to pay for what he did to your father and your brother?”

“Yes,” the boy hissed. There was this crazy spark in Gus’ eyes that made Anders muffle a panicked cry as the boy walked toward him.

Anders genuinely tried to defend himself, but his aggressor had the strength of a bull. Gus made him turn around and pushed him, face first against the wall. Anders tried to kick him in the shins with his heels, but it was useless. The boy had grabbed the back of his neck and he crushed Anders’ face on the wall. The stoned surface bit and cut Anders’ cheek and he let out a moan of pain and fear.

“The little slut is already moaning for you, Gus,” Bushy-Beard commented in a chuckle.

“Be a good boy and your fox stays alive... for now,” Anders heard Harelip telling him.

Gus leant forward to whisper in Anders’ hear. “Stand still, Buttercup, and I won’t hurt you; at least not more than what you deserve,” he spat.  

The consort felt like he would throw up any second.

“Hey!!! Guys!!” a voice shouted from outside the house. There was a fourth thief. Bushy-Beard and the others had probably asked this one to stand guard by the side of the road to warn them if they were to get interrupted. “Fresh news just arrived from Brastàl,” he informed the others. “John Mitchell is dead!!!”

Suddenly, Anders was violently turned around and pinned to the wall. “Is that true!?” Gus pressed him. He did not confirm or deny, paralyzed.

“That’s not all,” the fourth thief added, standing outside the crumbled doorframe of the house. “Robert Duncan is now Great Lord and he had put a ten-thousand gold coins reward on Anders Mitchell’s head.”  

“Well, well, well,” Bushy-Beard smirked, turning a greedy look toward Anders. “Now it’s getting even more interesting.”

“That explains why he was alone on the road,” Harelip pointed out.

“Yes,” the chief nodded. “I’m sure Duncan will be very happy when we deliver you to Brastàl,” he told Anders who tried to struggle again.

He was not going back to Brastàl, not after everything he did to escape the castle. It was out of the question.

“We are going to be so rich,” the thief standing outside rejoiced. “We are-“

He would never finish his sentence because his eyes suddenly widened and he brought his hand to his throat. An arrow was piercing it from side to side. The thief jerked back and fell when he received a second one through the ribs.

The boy holding Anders to the wall cursed and the two other started to panic as they heard several voices and footsteps approaching in a rapid pace.

Of all people, Anders didn’t expect to see Madraid Aileen enter the house. She was followed by a dozen of her priestesses, all armed with bows and arrows.

“Unless you want to finish the same way as your friend outside, I suggest that you put your weapons down, give His Grace his belongings and leave the place,” the druidess instructed in a voice that didn’t leave room for protests.

The three men were not stupid. They knew they didn’t have  any chance to come out alive against twelve adversaries with their bows drawn and ready to kill them at the first attempt of disobedience. The boy’s grip around Anders’ arms loosened. The two other men slowly put the consort’s clothes on the floor along with his daggers and they opened the bag to free Tiolam. The fox ran across the room to hide behind Anders’ legs, ears flat on her head and teeth bare.

Four priestesses escorted the thieves outside. As soon as they had left, the druidess and the remaining priestesses put their bows down and they curtseyed in front of Anders.

“Are you fine, my Lord Regent?” Madraid Aileen asked him as one of the priestesses hastened to collect the consort’s clothes and bring them to him.

“I’ve had better days,” he hissed. He had a hard time believing that he had come out unscathed of his encounter with the poachers.  ”I’m most grateful that you saved my skin, though.”

“We are always your devoted servants, Your Grace,” she assured him as Anders hastened to put his shirt on. It was the first time he felt ashamed to be bare-chested in front of so many women. The fear he had experienced in the hands of the thief boy had left this lingering feeling of vulnerability inside him.

“Our hearts are weeping with yours in this time of great grief,” the druidess told him with a look of sincere sadness once Anders was dressed. “One of our sisters who was in Brastàl came back during the night, carrying the news of your husband’s misfortune.”

Anders nodded, his throat tightening.

“May I offer you the hospitality of our temple where you can find safety, rest and, I hope, some comfort and guidance as well,” she offered with a compassionate smile.

He didn’t hesitate for long. He knew every hour was precious and that he should carry on with his journey right away, but his body and nerves begged him for rest, peace and quiet. “Your generosity is exemplary, Madraid,” Anders accepted with a tired smile. He picked up his still nervous fox and followed the women outside the ruins. He tried to put the vixen into his leather bag again but she resisted. Her recent captivity had obviously traumatized her. Instead, he kept her against his chest, under his cloak, where she finally calmed down a little.

The four archer priestesses who had escorted the thieves were back a few minutes later. “We let them go,” one of them informed the druidess. “They ran away the other side of the road toward the forest.”

“Fine. There have been enough dead for a day,” she sighed. “Put that one on a horse. We are going to burn him at the temple,” she added, pointing at the body pierced with two arrows, lying on the house’s doorstep.  

“Maybe we shouldn’t have let them live,” the consort remarked. “I’m sure they are going to go to Brastàl and tell Duncan where I am, hoping they will get a few gold coins for the information.”

“Let me deal with Lord Duncan,” Madraid Aileen reassured him. “I dare hope he is not as much a fool as to violate the spirits’ sacred home and enter the temple’s domain without my consent.”

“I wouldn’t count on Robert Duncan’s sense of honor if I were you,” Anders grunted.  

Two priestesses climbed together on a horse to give theirs to Anders. The labor horse was smaller than what Anders was used to, but the animal was much more docile than a war-horse and the blond man didn’t have any difficulty to ride it along the road, side by side with the druidess’ own horse.

The air was cold and humid: the clouds low and dark above the hills. It started to drizzle when they entered the woods surrounding the temple. The gloomy, leafless trees reminded Anders that there was still one moon left before the spring, but he had the sensation that this winter was there to stay. He was under the impression that we would never see greener, warmer days again.

“How did you know I was here, Madraid?” Anders inquired, curious.

“We use the basement of one of the abandoned houses to grow mushrooms. A priestess came early this morning to water them. She found you asleep, but before she could wake you up, she heard voices. She hid outside the house and saw the men arrive. She rode back to the temple to tell us that you were in danger.”

“I must thank her,” Anders decided. “The spirits know in what shape I would be now if she hadn’t been so quick-minded.”

“Her name is Edna,” the druidess informed him as they caught a sight of the temple and its surrounding buildings through the trees.

 

 

***

As soon as Anders jumped out of his horse in the courtyard, a small group of priestesses rushed toward him. They curtseyed quickly, but soon, they were all over the consort. They put their arms around his neck to hug him and pressed fervent kisses on his cheeks, expressing their relief to see him alive and well.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, young ladies,” he repeated in a chuckle, a bit overwhelmed by their display of sheer adoration.

He threw a look in Madraid Aileen’s direction and the druidess’ smile was fond and amused. Anders wondered what she could have told the priestesses about him for them to give him such a warm greeting. Not that he would complain about it, of course, but it was still unexpected.

“I leave our Lord Regent to your good care,” Madraid Aileen instructed her protégées. “I’m counting on you to make him feel welcomed among us.”

As the priestesses cheerfully accepted their mission, they led Anders to the other side of the courtyard. Another group of teenagers and young women were seated on the ground under a roof, all dressed in their similar cream-colored winter outfits.  The older girls were giving a basketry lesson to the younger ones as they chatted and sang. Happy and carefree in these sheltered woods, they were kept far from the horrors of war….” _but for how long?_ ” Anders pondered.

“We make baskets, my lord. Would you like to help us?” offered a woman who had a toddler seated on her lap.

Anders approached the group and stepped under the roof to escape the drizzle, but he shook his head. “I have no idea how to make those, I’m sorry.”

“We can show you, or you can just sit with us if you want,” the young woman smiled.

“In fact, I’m searching for one of your sisters. Her name is Edna.“

“Edna is not here.”

“She lives in the building behind the temple,” one of the younger novices informed him. Anders was about to excuse himself and head up there when Tiolam decided it was the right time to peek outside from under his cloak.  The apparition of the fox elicited a concert of delighted exclamations. It was the effect she usually had on the feminine gent. “You have a fox!! It is so adorable!!! Can we see it? Please, Your Grace!”

Of course, Tiolam started writhing in his arms, eager to get petted by so many hands. The consort didn’t have much choice but to stay with them now. He put the vixen down in the middle of the circle of ecstatic priestesses. They pressed Anders with questions about his pet and he couldn’t help but smile softly as he watched them playing with Tiolam. It put a little balm on his wounded heart. He sat on the ground next to the young woman who had her daughter on her lap.

“Puppy dog!” the toddler babbled, reaching her hands out, opening and closing her little fists in grabbing motions.

“That’s not a dog, sweetie; it’s a fox,” her mother explained. “Can she touch it?” she asked Anders.

“I’d rather not,” he objected. “Tiolam is not very used to young children and she likes to bite when she wants to play. She could hurt your daughter without meaning to.”

The mother nodded in agreement, but soon the little girl forgot the fox to find a new object of interest. ****

“Oh. Now it’s you she wants to get to know better, my lord,” the priestess noticed. “You can take her. I’m sure you don’t bite,” the young woman smiled, putting the toddler on top of the consort’s folded legs with confidence before he had time to protest. At first, Anders was like paralyzed. He didn’t dare move and only stared back into the curious, brown gaze darted on his face. A smile slowly appeared on his face. “Hi, little lady,” he told the toddler who giggled as a reply.

“ I conceived her at a summer fest,” the mother explained. “I wanted to have a girl.I prayed _Naiss_ and the spirit granted my wish.”

Anders listened distractedly. He was trying to imagine himself with a child. The only thing he managed to do was to envision John cooing over a little girl like this one who would be their heiress. Maybe John was right about him; maybe Anders would have been a good father. Maybe this would have been a good life- building a family with the man who loved him.

The toddler reached a hand to touch Anders’ bearded chin. “This like fox!” she declared in a decided tone.

The priestess hastened to take her daughter back from the Great Consort’s lap. “I’m sorry, she doesn’t really know what she is saying,” she apologized, afraid that he could take it as an insult.  

“That’s fine,” he reassured her. “She is not the first one to point out the resemblance. My husband calls me his fox all the time.”

An embarrassed and saddened silence fell on the group of priestesses as they all looked at him.

“Is it true that the nomads cut his head off? Do you miss him a lot?” a novice with short, curly hair asked.

“For the spirits’ sake, Seli!” another one scolded her. “That’s not something you can ask just like that!”

Anders’ lips pinched into a hard, thin line. He was not angered by their indiscretion. But the wave of grief that hit him was hard to conceal. “I don’t know if he is dead. I missed him all winter. Now it’s just…. worse,” he confided honestly.  “I’m sorry, ladies. I think I need to rest,” he breathed, standing up and dusting his kilt.  

“Tiolam!” he called, but the vixen was too happy to be petted and cuddled to obey. She didn’t make a move to follow her master and rolled onto her back instead, hoping for a belly rub.  “Fine. She can stay with you,” Anders told the priestesses with a sigh, “as long as you keep an eye on her.”

“We will,” they assured him in unison.

As he walked away, he heard the novices bicker:

“Why couldn’t you hold your tongue, Seli?! You are so stupid. Now he is gone!”

“Don’t call me stupid!”

“Don’t call her stupid!”

***

The drizzle had changed into rain and Anders pulled his hood over his head as he followed the path going around the temple. He wanted to thank the priestess who had alerted the druidess and saved his life. After that, he would find Madraid Aileen and ask for a corner, anywhere: a place where he could just curl into a ball and sleep without risking to be woken up by people wanting to rob and rape him.

As he was about to pass the door of  the first dwelling on his left, his shoulder collided with the one of a young woman storming out of it.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she apologized, eyes wide and stuttering. She curtseyed, her face red with embarrassment. Anders immediately noticed her lively, anthracite eyes and lovely face. She seemed to be about John’s age, maybe a little younger, but not by much.

“I’m searching for Mistress Edna,” he told her. “The other priestesses told me she lived here. Do you know where I can find her?”

“That depends on what you want from her, my lord,” she said, the embarrassment fast gone and a hint of playfulness at the corner of her smile.

“I want to thank her personally.”

“In that case, I have to confess that I am the person you are looking for.”    

He took her hand gallantly to place a kiss to the back of it. “Thank you for having saved my life.”

“There is nothing to thank me for,” she blushed. “I acted accordingly to my loyalty to the Mitchell clan.”

Anders could swear it was not the first time he met that girl. “Your face seems familiar,” he noticed, as he let go of her hand.

“Maybe you saw me before, but I never had the honor to speak to you. I was there at your wedding ceremony. I was the one who tattooed His Highness,” she explained. “I also saw you when I was dancing at the winterfest in Brastàl.”

“Were you one of the priestesses who wished to sleep with us?” the consort asked, out of genuine curiosity.

The crimson color that creeped to her cheeks again gave him all the answers he was looking for. “No offense, my lord, but you look like you could use some rest,” she pointed out, changing subject.  

“Yes. I do,” he conceded. “I’m exhausted.” His short sleep in the house ruins had not been enough to get rid of that constant and vague impression of sickness, fever and to have his brain full of fog.  

She took his hand and led him inside the building and to a simple room with a bed, a low table, a stool and a chest for only furniture. She brought him food and drinks. As he ate, she cleaned the cut on his cheek with attention and gentle care, seated by his side to the edge of the bed. They did some small talk. Her soft features had a calming and comforting effect on Anders who realized he felt better when he put his empty cup of wine back on the platter.

“I will lend you my bed for you to rest. But let me help you undress first,” she offered.

He stood up and did not protest. He was used to have servants helping him dress and undress. The current situation was not unusual. And besides, his muscles were so sore a bit of help was welcomed.

However, the way she was undoing his neckerchief, with slow, calculated moves, grazing his skin with her fingertips more than necessary, told the blond man that she may have other motives.

She placed his cloak on the stool next to the bed and helped him shrug off his coat. As she unbuttoned his waistcoat, she stopped midway, thoughtful “I don’t understand why some people say that you look odd,” she mused. She paused and put her hand flat against his stomach. “When I found you asleep in those ruins this morning, I thought that you were the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” she confessed in a hushed tone.  

Anders wasn’t immune to flattery and the priestess knew by instinct where his weak spot was.  “Don’t flatter me too much. You don’t know what I can do,” he smirked. It was meant as a harmless tease, but she lifted her chin and the look she gave him was not as innocent as it wanted to appear. He saw desire flicker into her eyes.

“What would you do? I’d like to find out,” she said, stepping even closer. Anders felt like someone who just set fire to a haystack by accident. He didn’t try to stop her. He was curious to know where this was going.

“Can you show me what you could do?” Edna asked in a murmur.  She was so close now that the heat of her young body radiated through her dress and warmed his chest. With her rosy cheeks and plump mouth, she looked like a fresh apple that only gave one the need to take a bite into it.

It’s her lips that found his.They both didn’t move at first. She was testing the waters, but didn’t find any resistance on the Lord’s part. It didn’t take much time before her tongue grazed the arc of his upper lip. To Anders, this kiss was like a hot pastry just out of the oven after many moons of hunger. He placed his hand to the back of her neck, but she was the one who deepened the kiss. She pushed his waistcoat off his shoulders and pulled on his shirt to lead him to the bed without breaking the kiss. They tumbled on the narrow mattress side by side, grabbing each other’s clothes, both desperate for contact.

“Since the moment I saw you for the first time, I couldn’t stop thinking of you,” she confessed, panting under his touch.

Truth be said, Anders wasn’t listening. His hands had traveled down her firm curves to her hips. It would be so easy for him to give in to the temptation. This was known territory: like the scene of a play learnt by heart. He knew exactly what to do and say to make her spread her legs for him. Old habits die hard.

This reminded him of an old tale: the one telling the story of the Island of Delights. The mythic island was supposed to be somewhere to the south west of the North Hills coasts. The legend said that it was inhabited by beautiful selkies: creatures that lived as seals in the sea but shed their seal skin to walk as humans on land. Those female selkies disdained the company of the males of their own races and wished to breed with humans. Therefore, they attracted the sailors to their island. They took good care of those men, treated them with love and respect, but once a man set foot on this island, he could never leave.

With all those young women, so eager for his company, Somerled temple was an Island of Delight of its own and it made Anders one of the careless sailors of the tale.

She gasped as he pulled her flush against his own hips. He took her parted lips between his own like one would pluck a flower, tasting her mouth - sweet summer fruit. She ran her hands down his chest and slipped them under his shirt to caress his skin underneath.

Anders had ceased to think. He just craved a human body against his – some warmth, some affection, just anything.

He rolled on top of her and pressed her into the mattress. She whimpered and circled him with her legs as she pulled him down for another kiss.

An image appeared in Anders’ mind, like a first sight when waking up after a deep sleep.  It was the interior of a temple at night. It was not Somerled’s temple but Brastàl’s; a lightning struck and two embraced silhouettes stood there. John had a man in his arms. He was kissing someone who wasn’t Anders. The hurtful memory hit the consort like a fist. The red iron spear of guilt prodded him in the stomach. He had only followed his body’s impulse: his need for comfort and his mind’s wish to forget the pain and grief.  But now he was forced to realize what he was doing. How would he feel if it was John, in that bed, with that priestess? And moreover, how would John feel if he saw Anders on top of her, his tongue lost between her teeth. Anders would not be able to bear the hurt and betrayal he would see in his spouse’s eyes. That thought made him break the torrid kiss.

“Anders,” the priestess breathed, chasing after his lips.

He pulled back before she could kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“What for?”

There was a moment of silence when they just looked at each other, then : “I can’t do that,” he confessed. “You are very lovely, Edna, and in another life I would have been happy to share pleasure with you, but….. my husband...”  

She looked disappointed, but not angry. She could have argued that there was no guarantee that John was still alive and that Anders was most likely a widower. She could have reminded him that he wouldn’t be breaking his wedding vows by taking her, because she was a priestess.  But instead, she reached a hand and caressed his bearded cheek with a sad smile. “I understand,” she murmured.

“Thank you,” he whispered, freeing her from under his weight and collapsing on the mattress.  Five moons ago, he would have been eager to give her what she wanted. But a young warrior with curly hair had changed everything. Dismiss a girl: this was also known territory, but never before had he done it before he could get something from her, and moreover, never to stay faithful to somebody.

She left the bed with grace, straightened her dress and headed to the door, like a dream that vanishes in the morning, but Anders called her before she could walk past the doorframe. “Would you mind… staying with me?” he asked her, knowing he had no right to ask such thing after he had rejected her advances. “For nothing more than sleep,” he specified. “I just need company.”

She seemed to pity him a little, but he didn’t care. “Of course, my lord,” she agreed. She walked back to the bed and snuggled with him under the covers. She stayed by his side: a quiet presence that helped him fall asleep.

***

When Anders woke up, several hours later, the sunlight had disappeared from the bedroom and a candle had been left on the nightstand. He had slept the day through to the evening, and as far as he could judge, a few hours into the night as well. Grief and longing were waiting for him at the side of the bed. He took his first gulp of air when he emerged and they took this opportunity to slip back in his throat.

The priestess was still in the bed with him. Anders watched Edna sleep and he envied her. He wanted to sleep in a man’s arms too: pillow his head on a strong shoulder. Not just any shoulder but one sporting Väm’s symbol as a tattoo.

He regretted his conduct with the young woman. He had put an end to their foreplay before it could go any further, but he had still kissed and touched her. He also felt bad for Edna, to whom he had given false hope. He sensed that he would have never been able to give her what she really wanted from him. She was a substitute- only a way for him to distract himself from the pain and fear. Once again he had been an incorrigible prick and tried to use someone.

Anders also felt like he had never given John what he truly needed as well. That’s probably why he had never allowed himself to love anybody before. Caring about his own needs was easy, trying to make others happy was much more complicated.

The priestess blinked her eyes open and gave the consort a tiny smile. “Did you sleep well, Your Grace?”

“I think so, “ was his vague answer. “I hope I didn’t do anything unwarranted in my sleep.”

She propped herself on her elbow and ran her fingers through his blond locks, like she hesitated to give him a response. “You clung to me and called your husband’s name a few times,” she finally admitted.

This should have come as a surprise to the consort, but it didn’t.

He averted his gaze. She had every reason to pity him now.

She hesitated before confiding: “you also repeated something like ‘I should have told him’.

Anders still didn’t dare look at her. He gulped. The consort knew too well what his own words were referring to. He was carrying this remorse like a bag of rocks everywhere he went since the arrival of John’s last letter. He thought they had forever. He thought he had plenty of time to find the right moment and tell John. But this moment would maybe never happen.

“Sir ? What do you regret you never told him?” she asked, touching his chin in a comforting gesture.

His eyes were full of grief when they finally met hers, but he didn’t reply.

“Oh,” she emitted, circling his mid-section to hug him.

He gently entangled himself from her arms and stepped outside the bed. He walked around the room to gather his clothes, his weapons and his bag. He could not stay in Somerled temple any longer.

“What are you doing?” Edna inquired.

“I already wasted too much time here,” he replied, putting the daggers back inside their sheaths and hanging them to his belt.

There was hurt in the anthracite eyes, but the priestess remained quiet.

“I have to restore the legitimate Great Lord at the head of the country,” Anders told her as he slung his bag across his shoulder,  “because trust me, with Duncan on the throne, we are running directly to a catastrophe.”

For a second, he realized how ridiculous they were:  him and his impossible quest. He let himself fall on the stool and sighed. “I must find him but I don’t even know if he is still alive or where he is,” he breathed, discouraged.  

Edna sat up in the bed. “The spirits could show you, and Madraid Aileen can help you reach them,” she asserted with fervor.  

The consort hesitated, but in fact, apart from time, he had nothing to lose trying. The dreams Anders had recently had told him that there were probably more players involved in the game than the ones his eyes could see.

***

Never had Anders seen someone as enthralled as Madraid Aileen when being woken up in the middle of the night. Edna hadn’t left his side, and he would find her annoying if she wasn’t so devoted in helping him.

“So, you say that you are having troubling dreams?” the druidess asked him as they entered the dark  temple. “When did they begin?”

“I had one before John went to war. I dreamt that he was abducted, but the dreams became more vivid after he left,” Anders narrated. “My husband came to see me in a dream. He was hurt. I knew something had happened to him even before getting the news from the battlefield.”

Anders shuddered when Edna pushed open all of the temple’s doors and the four winds gusted inside.

“It’s because when you sleep, your soul is not trapped into your body and it can travel,” the older woman explained, reminding Anders of what John had told him on the night before his departure. “While you are asleep, you can communicate with people with whom you share a close bond, like the one you have with your husband.”

Anders looked down to the tattoo on his wrist in the light of the candles Edna had just lightened up.

The druidess noticed the gesture. “The tattoo is just a symbol,” she commented. “The bond I’m speaking about runs deeper than that.” She walked to the fountain at the middle of the circular and cleaned her hands in the running water. “It’s good that you are a powerful dreamer, because it is exactly what this ceremony consists in. “

“Really!? I slept all day long!” Anders protested. “How am I going to fall asleep again? I’m not a godsdamn hibernating bear!”

"We will give you a bit of help, of course,” the druidess reassured him, reaching in her bag to take a phial and a goblet. She poured the liquid into the goblet and held it out for Anders to take. “Drink that,” she told him with a smile.

The blond man inspected and sniffed the content. He couldn’t see much in the dim light, but the scent was not an unpleasant one. He had learnt to be careful with drinks he hadn’t served himself, and above all, not to trust the ones he had no idea what they were made of.

“We call this mixture _airidhe_ ,” she informed him when she noticed his reluctance. “It will help you reach a state of trance in which you will be able to find the answers you are seeking."

"What's in it?" Anders asked, suspicious. The word “ _airidhe_ ” meant “visions” or “spectres”, which didn’t reassure him much.  

"Several ingredients. But maybe it is better that you don't know."

Nothing had made him think he couldn’t trust the druidess, and if he had to take this risk to reach John and get answers, he didn’t have much choice but to take it. He wet his lips with the liquid and licked them. It tasted like bitter licorice.

"Drink it all, my lord," she instructed him.   

He emptied the goblet in one gulp and winced when the burning liquid went down his throat. She invited Anders to purify his hands in the fountain and then she asked him in front of which altar he wanted to lie down. Anders chose Väm, the spirit of blood. He wanted his husband’s tutelary entity to guide him during the trance. Most of the dreams he had made concerning John also had blood in them so it seemed to be a logical choice.

Anders’ vision started to blur. He felt dizzy and light at the same time. Edna helped him lie on his back on the floor, his head orientated toward the altar where Madraid Aileen was busy burning a bunch of white sage into the offering bowl.

Edna wrapped the consort into three woolen blankets to make sure he would not freeze during his sleep. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay at the temple, Your Grace?” she questioned him gently as she placed a pillow under his head. “You’d be protected from your enemies here. We would take care of you.”

Being warm, fed and cozy, with a bunch of women ready to worship him: it was more attractive than the idea of the dangers, the pain and maybe the death waiting for him on the road to the south. That offer sounded like a dream come true. Except that Anders had understood recently that he was not destined to live in a fantasy world. “Your offer is very tempting, Edna,” he told her, “But it would be very egoistic of me to agree. Me being here put you and your sisters in danger I don’t think Duncan has much care for what is sacred. Only his ambitions seem to count. I’m an obstacle to his power and he’ll do anything to get rid of me. I don’t want the priestesses of this temple to be the collateral victims.”

She nodded and fell silent.

The effect of the drug kicked in quickly. All of a sudden, Anders gasped and tried to grip the covers. The stoned floor had changed into a liquid substance and he was sinking in it. The liquid was in his eyes, making him blind. He tried to scream, struggle or swim but was pulled down by a force he could not resist.

“Anders?” he heard Edna’s voice worry.

“That’s fine,” Madraid Aileen’s voice soothed her. “Let him go. Don’t try to hold him back.”

 

 

**_to be continued..._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expected this sequel would be less followed than the last part of the story. There is a lot of chapter to read to get here so I'm grateful that some of you are still there, reading and commenting. You are the reason why I keep going. So thank you for being there.


	8. A Fine Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge amount of thanks to Kat for the betaing, and for teaching me new things in english every time she corrects a chapter and also thanks to Dragon4488 for the stunning drawing!

_Anders struggled to emerge from the thick liquid. He could breathe, but the sensation of sinking and being trapped in a sticky substance was enough to make him panic. He couldn’t see anything and there was nothing for him to hold on to. This absurd fight against dark nothingness went on until long fingers closed around his wrist in a strong grip and pulled him out of the liquid abyss. The next thing Anders knew, he was lying on his stomach on the floor of the temple, his fingernails trying to plow the stoned surface in a desperate attempt not to sink again. But the floor was solid now and the temple silent and empty. It was the first thing Anders noticed when he stood up: this complete silence. Whoever had grabbed his wrist and saved him was nowhere to be seen. The second thing the blond man noticed was his nude state._

_“Of course… I’m naked…” he grunted out loud, looking down at his bare legs and sex. If this was a vision constructed by his own mind, it was not even surprising. And whatever was_ _i_ _n the cup Madraid Aileen had made him drink, “it was amazingly strong,” he thought. And still, he felt strangely lucid. This was a very vivid hallucination._

_The fountain that usually took place in the middle of the room had disappear_ _ed_ _. Instead, there was a large, circular hole in the ground, like a well without a winch. Anders approached carefully. The well was so deep he could not se_ _e t_ _he bottom of it. Despite that, he could tell that there was something moving down there and it was not water. There was some odd, shuffling noises; some gurgles and whispers. “Hey!” he called, but the echo threw his voice back at him in several identical copies._

_Suddenly, from the depths_ _rose_ _a voice that he recognized as Mike’s: "What is going on with you? I thought you'd be relieved. Shouldn't you be celebrating your long awaited freedom?”_

_Anders took a step back, away from the well, but another voice spoke: a sultry, feminine one: “Since the moment I saw you for the first time, I couldn’t stop thinking of you.”_

_This deep well was nothing but the one of Anders’ bad conscience and the last thing he wanted was to f_ _a_ _ll into it. There were dark, shameful things lurking at the bottom. His conscience was asking him the right questions, though. The ones Anders avoided to ask himself. Was it what he had done with the priestess? Had he tried to do what Mikkel expected from him: celebrate his freedom and the end of his arranged marriage? He had been a fool to think he had more morals than what his brother gave him credit for._

_“You know I had a lot of respect for John, something you didn't have yourself,” said Mike’s voice again._

_Anders clenched his fists and stepped forward. “Shut up!!!” he yelled into the well, but the murmurs at the bottom only gained in intensity. The blond man blocked his ears with both hands, but he could still hear them – they were in his mind…. “SHUT UP!” he yelled again and suddenly the voice_ _s_ _were all gone and the temple was quiet again._

_Anders wondered if it was really him who had made them stop, because he could now feel that he wasn’t alone_ _i_ _n the temple anymore. He spin_ _ned_ _around but couldn’t see anybody. He called out, but no one replied._

_This game went on until an equally naked body was suddenly pressed against his back. Anders gasped, but arms circled his waist and fingers sprawled on the exposed skin of his stomach, holding him still._

_The consort did not try to struggle, escape or even move. He could feel the slight scraping of curly, body hair on his shoulder blades. The sensation was not unknown. The large chest was solid, steady, grounded; like a mountain side against his back._

_Anders had the certitude he had recognized his husband’s touch._

_“Don't turn around,” John’s voice whispered in his right ear.  It was an order, but not in a threatening fashion. It was sensual, seductive …familiar. Light kisses were placed on the top of his shoulder and the blond man fought the urge to turn around and look at his lord. He knew he would find in the hazel eyes the warmth and the reassurance he was seeking._

_“Are you there for real or is it my imagination making this up?” Anders asked, a bit wary._

_“It's not a dream – it's a vision,” John pointed out, rubbing the tip of his nose on the soft spot under Anders’ ear.  “Thus, I'd say it's a bit of both.”_

_John's hand traveled up from his stomach to his shoulder, then to his neck, applying just the right amount of pressure on his skin to be both soft and making him shiver, and at the same time, make his muscles relax from the light massage._

_This was way too distracting. Anders was afraid he would wake up soon. He had a mission, even if he wanted to get lost in the sensation._

_He craved for more. This simple caress was not enough to make up for the deep need he felt. However, he managed to speak, like he was afraid of forgetting his main purpose._ " _I need to know…..hmm…. where I can find you," he said, his voice halting in the middle of the sentence so he could let out a long hum of relaxed arousal._

 

_ _

 

_"Later," John assured him. "First of all, I want to touch you," he added, prompting Anders to tilt his head to the side with a gentle push of his chin. The blond gave him access to his neck without hesitation. He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply when teeth and lips grazed the skin over a sensitive sinew.  "Don't you miss me?" John breathed into the crook of the consort's neck and Anders was grateful for his husband's arms around him because he felt his knees go weak. Lust coiled between his legs like a puddle of warm syrup._

_“Hmmm. I miss that,” Anders admitted. One of John’s hand_ _s_ _went down and traced the slight curve of his belly but stopped just at the limit between his lower stomach and pubis, the fingers only toying with the hair. Soft, wordless pleas escaped Anders’ lips as he arched his spine, pressing his backside to John’s erection. The blond man wanted that large palm and those long fingers on his hardening shaftand he was ready to do anything to achieve that._

_After his frightening encounter with the thieves in the abandoned house, the consort had understood that he would never let another man apart from John touch him in an intimate manner ever again. With women, it was easier. He felt less vulnerable, less compromised. Even if he became a widower,John would have been the first and the last man to bed him._

_The other one of John’s hands closed around his throat, not applying any pressure, but just holding him with enough possessiveness to make Anders moan again. The pad of the warrior’s thumb rubbed his Adam apple in a soothing gesture. The pleasure elicited by th_ _at_ _simple touch spread through the aklànder’s veins in hot pulses as John nibbled, kissed and sucked the skin at the junction between his neck and shoulder._

_Anders’ own hands found purchase on his husband’s thighs behind him._

_John’s hand left his husband’s throat in order to caress his chest. He ran his fingers through the short, reddish hair and teasing the aureoles of the nipples. “You miss me stroking your lovely body, do you?” John asked, pressing his lips to his consort’s ear shell._

_“Ye-yes. “_

_“Anders Mitchell….my delicious husband…” the brunet purred in a husky tone, the touch of his fingertips torturously teasing on Anders’ hot skin._

_“Aren't you afraid that with that kind of compliment, I would become so cocksure I'd be insufferable?” the smaller man wondered in a light chuckle._

_“You mean: more than you already are? “_

_“Oi! Watch_ _y_ _our tongue!” Anders warned him, battling John’s right hand away._

_It was John’s turn to laugh. “I can do a lot of agreeable things with my tongue,_ _just so_ _you know.”_

_“I miss that too,” Anders murmured as John’s arms sneaked back around his waist. He leant back into the embrace with a content sigh. “I find it oddly attractive when you sass me. “_

_The consort turned his head to the side and was able to see his husband’s profile. Their eyes met and Anders was astonished once more_ _by_ _the sheer beauty of the man he had married: the perfect symmetry of the jaw line, the inviting arc of the upper lip, the straight line of the nose, the honey colored sparks in the irises and the curly strands of dark hair framing it all._ _It_ _was so real – that vision. Anders wanted to believe that it was really John with him, at th_ _at_ _moment, at least a part of him. He needed th_ _at_ _belief right now._

_The brunet’s touch on his body ha_ _d t_ _enderness that made Anders’ heart ache, but the consort was also slightly impatient. His lover’s hands were avoiding the obvious place where Anders really wanted them. The consort could tell that John was doing it on purpose. John’s lips, too soft and hungry for his sake, had kept on with their intensive exploration of the side of Anders’ neck and the blond man couldn’t help a long, frustrated groan. "I'm very hard now, John," he whined, pointing down at his slightly incurved and proudly erected member._

_"I can see that,” John commented in a low voice that hid a proud smile, looking down from above his spouse’s shoulder. “Hard and beautiful," he added, rubbing his own engorged cock against one of Anders’ round buttocks. “You want me to take care of it?" he offered softly._

_"Don't make me beg," was the already pleading reply: breathed between gritted teeth._

_"I wouldn't dare to," John smiled.  ‘Don't worry. I won't vanish just now,” he reassured his husband who was trembling from long-denied need i_ _n_ _his arms._

_A sound, between a moan and a sigh of relief, came from between Anders’ parted lips when his cock found its right place: wrapped inside the gentle squeeze of his husband’s hand. John placed his other arm across his consort’s chest to keep him close against his front as he pleasured him with his usual dedication and selflessness._

_Anders’ mind was invaded by many filthy thoughts. The sensation of his spouse’s erection on his backside gave him the need to drop to the floor, on his all fours and let his lord take him. During the long, cold moons of lonesomeness, giving himself to his husband like that had been Anders’ most recurrent fantasy: to let John push his kilt up on his lower back and have his way with him like one would take a peasant girl in the high grass of a field. He died to have John’s hands grabbing his hips: to feel every inch of his hard length. He had wanted and thought about it with this shaking, excited need at the pit of his stomach as if he was asking for something forbidden._

_But for now he intend_ _ed_ _to enjoy what John was doing. And the spirits knew his husband was skilled when it came to work_ _ing_ _his cock just the right way. John alternated between a firmer squeeze and a light caress, and Anders writhed and whimpered, eyes closed and biting his lower lip like a helpless maiden. Nobody had ever made him want to give up control like John did. Nobody had ever made him feel so trustful. In the end, Anders couldn’t really tell what had been the cause of his orgasm. Was it John’s skilled twist of his wrist as Anders bucked into his fist? Was it the kisses and light bites to his neck and shoulder? Or maybe it was the way his dark-haired husband panted against his skin and told him how much he wanted him.  All Anders could say was that it felt liberating beyond anything._

_He took some time to gather his wits as he rested his head back against John’s shoulder._

_“Can I turn around now?” Anders finally asked._

_"Come here," the Great Lord agreed. When he had the blond man facing him, he held his beloved tight into his arms and Anders hid his face into his neck without hesitation._

_The fact his lover was odorless, instead of his usual earthly and pleasantly musky scent, reminded Anders that this, as real as it seemed, was nothing but a vision. “I’m not even sure you are still alive…“ the blond man murmured._

_“Do I look dead to you?” he heard John retort._

_“You are a vision. How would I know?”_

_“If your spirit can reach me, it means that there is still something to reach, don’t you think?”_

_It left Anders pensive. “You are still taken captive by the nomads, yes? I will come and try to free you,” he told his husband as John let his hands run up and down his back. “Where can I find you? Where are they keeping you?”_

_“I'm sure you already have a plan,” John observed. “Tell me what it is.”_

_“I thought I should go to Archerwall, since it is the last place you've been seen alive, and from there, try to find where they brought you.”_

_“If it is what your intuition tells you to do, then, you should listen to it.”_

_Anders was disappointed. He had wished for something more substantial. “That's all?” he asked._

_“I'm afraid it's all I can tell you,” the warrior apologized. A silence lingered as they just held each other._

_“You should have let me come with you, John,” Anders whispered, pulling back slightly to look into_ _the_ _hazel eyes._

_A soft and dry palm cupped the blond’s face. “The past can't be changed, my love.”_

_Two of the temple’s doors slammed open in a thundering bang, making Anders jump. A brown horse galloped through the temple to the opposite door._

_“What in the spirits names was that!?” Anders questioned his husband when the apparition had vanished._

_“It’s the sign that you are starting to wake up.”_

_"No! Wait!” Anders pleaded, grabbing John’s arms to prevent him_ _from_ _disappear_ _ing_ _as well. “Will I succeed? Will I see you again- other than in a vision or a dream, I mean?"_

_"I don't know, Anders,” John replied, putting a last kiss to his consort’s hairline. “We have to trust the spirits and you have to trust your instincts."_

_Anders’ vision was getting blurry. He tried to resist and hold John back, but he was losing grip and_ he was lying in a heap of straw and it was not John next to him but Edna. When the priestess saw he was waking up, blinking in the painful daylight, she put a finger to her lips, enjoining him to stay quiet.

Anders sat up slowly, dizzy and nauseous. It took him a moment to understand he was in the temple’s stables, but he was alerted enough to prick up his ear. There were voices outside: male voices. He wanted to believe that it was only some faithful from Somerled coming to the temple for a marriage or funeral, but he wasn’t that deep in denial.

He couldn’t understand what was being said outside.  Was Madraid Aileen going to betray him and sell him to Duncan? The frightening idea did cross his mind, but he knew that if it had been so, he would have already been on his way to Brastàl and not hidden in a horse box.

The male voices faded away and silence fell on the stables.

Edna turned to look at him. “Did you get to learn anything?” she questioned in a whisper, referring to his visions.  

“Nothing I didn't know yet,” he admitted.  

“That's unfortunate.”

“At least the sex was spectacular”, Anders commented with a smirk, letting himself fall onto his back in the straw with a stupid, smug smile plastered on his face. The sticky sensation under his kilt told him that he hadn’t imagined the powerful orgasm.

The priestesses blushed and her eyes shifted from his face to the front of his kilt. “Oh…. yes. That can happen when you drink _airidhe_. I will fetch you something to clean yourself up,” she offered.  

“Thanks.”

“You must stay here and not move,” she recommended him. “If anybody comes near, you’ll have to hide. We had to move you here during your trance because there are soldiers from Brastàl who arrived at the break of dawn, saying they wished to be allowed to pray in the temple.”

“You didn’t believe them, I hope,” Anders snorted. “There is a temple in Brastàl, so why would they want to come here so early?”

“Madraid Aileen didn’t believe them either, but she figured out it would be less suspicious if she let them in like we had nothing to hide.”

“It’s wise,” he approved.  

Edna left and Anders buried himself into the natural mattress offered to him. He kept his eyes open, looking at the light filter through the straw. It brought back old memories.

Behind the guardhouse of Aklànd castle, there was a cavity in the wall that used to shelter the statue of a previous Great Lord. The statue was long gone and there was now only a hole, covered by a curtain of ivy. It was large enough to accommodate a ten to thirteen year old boy, as long as the said boy wasn’t too burly or tall. In short, it was like it had been made for Anders. It was his favorite place to hide from his step-mother and his father. Usually, when his step-mother got angry because Anders didn’t do what she wanted, she complained to Lord Johnson who took unto him to give the boy a proper punishment. Anders had spent so many hours hiding  there: looking at the changing light through the ivy leaves. In the end, maybe his life hadn’t changed that much since then. Fear and hiding seemed to be a constant.

***

When Edna came back, she found the Great Consort kneeling on the heap of straw, his dagger drawn from its sheath and a grave look on his face. To her astonishment, he took the wet towel, but pressed the dagger into her hand in exchange.

“You are going to cut my hair,” he demanded.

“Your hair, my lord?” the priestess asked, uncertain.

“Yes, my hair,” he insisted.  “That on my head, mind you.”

 

The fashion in Brastàl and the surrounding cities was that men wore their hair long- the longer the better. That’s why Lady Johnson had battled for years to have her step-son letting his hair grow, so it would be as long as possible for the wedding day. Anders had always refused to let it get longer than shoulder-length, no matter what she could say. He even thought of shaving it completely when he learnt that James Mitchell was dead and that his marriage was imminent. While travelling on the boat to Brastàl, he had made plans to shave during the night before his wedding, as a gesture of protest. Then, he laid his eyes on his future husband and changed his mind. He had decided he didn’t want to look like an egg on his wedding day.

“You sure you want to do it?” Edna asked again, running her fingers through the alluring blond mane. “It would be a shame.”

“Yes I’m sure,” he insisted, annoyed by her hesitation. He had no time to waste on aesthetic commiserations. “For now this hair is a target that says ‘kill him, he is the one’, and it’ll look darker once it’s short so _please_ , get on with it.”

She proceeded without a word. Anders didn’t even give a look to the blond curls that fell on his shoulders one by one. He brushed them off and they went mixing with the straw on the ground.  As the priestess was focused on cutting his hair, Anders reached under his kilt to clean himself up with the towel. It lacked any class, but he had given up on looking civil when he had been forced to flee Brastàl castle. He was not a Great Consort anymore, nor a lord or even a nobleman: he was a political dissident on the run.

“I have to leave this place before bloody Duncan circles it with my soldiers… his soldiers as it turns out,” he grunted.

“If leaving is your wish, we will help you, Your Grace,” the young woman assured him.  

On cue, the druidess walked in the stables, followed by four of her protégées just as Edna cut the last strand of blond locks from the consort’s head. “The soldiers are gone,” Madraid Aileen announced. “I’m glad they did not find what they were looking for,” she added, staring at Anders with concern.

“They will come back,” the blond man predicted.

“That’s what I fear,” she conceded.

“That’s fine. I won’t be a burden any longer,” he told her.

“You are not a burden, my Lord Regent.”

“My mere presence here puts you in a delicate situation,” Anders objected, “And I’m pretty sure calling me ‘Lord Regent’ is considered a treachery these days. You should accept Robert Duncan as the new Lord of Brastàl and not try to confront him,” he advised, standing up and running a hand in his hair. It felt so strange. He couldn’t remember ever having had it so short. “At least you should keep on with this policy until I come back with John,” he went on. “Then, we will need your help and support to restore him on the throne.” He took his dagger from Edna’s hands and slipped it back in its sheath.

“You saw him alive in your vision….” Madraid Aileen breathed, impressed and hopeful.

“I saw him, but whatever it meant, I’m going to the south,” he announced.

The druidess nodded. “This is very brave of you. And we will always be loyal to the real and rightful Great Lord.”

Anders was strangely irritated when people told him he was doing something courageous. It is not courage if you have no other choice.

Madraid Aileen ordered to one of the priestesses to find Anders a horse and saddle it. The girl came back a few minutes later with a small black mare with a white patch on its nose. The beast was a stout, strong one, and it probably had a good stamina, but her stomach seemed abnormally large, like swollen.     

“Is she pregnant?”  Anders wondered, taking the bridle and patting the side of the horse’s belly cautiously.

“No, she always was like that from the day she was born. That’s why we called her ‘ _Màla,_ ” the priestess explained.   _Màla_ was the Gaelic word used to designate the bag of a bagpipe and in the mare’s case, it was a fitting name.

“She is a very brave beast,” Madraid Aileen commented as Anders adjusted his leather bag on his shoulder and led the horse out into the courtyard. “She will serve you well, my lord.”

“Take care of my fox until my return, if I survive this journey and get to come back to these lands one day,” the consort told one of the novices who was there when he had entrusted Tiolam to the group of girls the previous day.

“It will be our honor, Your Grace,” she assured him with a quick curtsy.  

Tiolam would be happier there than on the road with him. She would have food every day and plenty of cuddles.

“I’m not sure how I’m going to get past the guards at the city’s gate, though. They are probably already aware of the price on my head,” Anders pondered out loud. In his hurry to leave, he had not thought of that obstacle.

“I think I have an idea,” one of the priestesses beamed.

“Something tells me I won’t like it…” Anders sighed.  

 

***

Every day, at the end of the afternoon, a group of priestesses walked to the city to distribute the offerings to the poor and the sick. The guards were used to seeing them pass at the same hour before nightfall. They never controlled them. Hence, the guards would not notice if, this time, there were six priestesses instead of five. At least, that’s what Anders and his companions hoped.

“You make a very fine lady, my lord,” Edna commented, as Anders led his new horse past the bridge over the stream surrounding the temple’s domain. He lifted his dress with his other hand not to trip on the roots and branches. The priestesses had disguised him as one of them, with one long, white, velvet dress and its matching cloak. And after Anders had thanked Madraid Aileen for her help and hospitality, they loaded the offerings in baskets on Màla’s back and had taken the road to the city.   

The aklànder hesitated between a snort and a chuckle, but he finally chose the latter: “Oh well. White is usually not my color but I guess I’d look good in anything,” he replied, casual.

The two priestesses walking behind Anders were caught in a fit of giggles and they couldn’t stop as the party reached the path crossing the hills.  

The man suspected that their hilarity was a result of his girly outfit. “Your laughter is only an indication of your utter jealousy,” Anders chid them without turning around. “You cannot help admiring how this dress clings to my manly forms and makes me irresistible.”

He only managed to make the teenage girls laugh even more.  

The spirits seemed to be on their side, because it started raining as soon as they arrived on the top of a hill and saw Somerled’s walls ahead. The change in the weather gave them the perfect excuse to pull their hoods over their heads. Anders imitated them, hiding his unequally stubbled face in the process. He had had the priestesses shave him, but with scissors instead of a proper razor, there was a limit to the facial hair they could remove.

“You’d better stay by me, Your Grace,” Edna instructed Anders as they walked down the hill and approached the main gate where two soldiers were standing guard.

“Ladies!” one of the guards hailed them as soon as he saw the priestesses.

Heart beating fast, Anders pulled on his horse’s reins and made sure to hide his face under his hood by looking down and staying behind Màla’s big, hairy head.

“Be careful when you walk the road to get back to the temple,” the guards warned them. “You probably heard that John Mitchell’s widower is on the run. Who knows what he could do to little flowers like the lot of you. Rumor has it that he likes taking advantage of young women.”

 _“Can’t say it’s entirely a lie,”_ Anders couldn’t help but smirk in his mind. But if this was the truth once, it’s been a long time he hadn’t been that man. Now he was the kind of fool who refused himself a lovely priestess ready to shed her undergarments for him.   

“We will be very prudent, Elden, I promise,” one of the priestesses told the guard, batting her lashes.

The guard stepped aside to let them pass and Anders did his best to roll his hips and adopt what he thought would look like a feminine walk.

They had made no more than twenty steps when the guard called them again. “Hey! Hey, you, with the horse!”

Anders stopped dead in his tracks and his blood froze in his veins. It could only be him the guard was speaking about. He was the only one there who was anywhere next to a horse. He turned around slowly, not knowing what else to do. Starting to run in the opposite direction was certainly not an option.

“You dropped this, darling,” the said Elden informed Anders.

From the shadows under his hood, the blond man saw the guard walk toward him with a red ribbon in his hand – one of Anders and John’s wedding bonds. How did it end up there? Maybe it  fell into Anders’ leather bag when he had packed in a hurry. He had absolutely no idea. The guard approached in a rapid pace and if he got too close, or if Anders had to speak, his cover would be blown up instantly.

Quick minded, Edna interposed herself between the two men. “Oh! Thank you!” she rejoiced. “It’s mine, actually.”

The guard narrowed his eyes, but Anders took the opportunity of this unexpected diversion to turn away. Fortunately, Elden didn’t seem to be in a mood to investigate and he dropped the matter, getting back to his guarding post without further comments.

“It was close shave, my lord,” Edna told the consort in a low voice as they made their way through the marketplace.

“Aye,” he simply replied, pinching his lips. She gave him the ribbon and Anders hastened to shove it into his bag. The idea of owing something to her once more was a galling one. It was like it gave more weight to her mindless, absurd little crush on him. He didn’t want to give her more reasons than she already had to cling to him like a wet leaf.

They crossed the city to Somerled’s poor house, one of the public institutions founded under James Mitchell’s reign. The priestesses offered Anders to get inside with them while they distributed the food and goods instead of staying in the street under the rain, but Anders refused.  He admitted having deep-rooted issues with that kind of place. What he kept to himself was that, besides dreading the nasty smell or the sickness, his fear mostly came from the fact he had always been scared of finishing his days in a place like this: alone and abandoned, as if misery and loneliness was a plague he could catch.   

The priestesses gave him funny looks but went on with their task without insisting.  He told himself he was still useful. Someone had to look after the horse.

The temple owned premises near the poorhouse and once the priestesses were finished, they brought Anders there so he could get changed into man clothing again.

 

***

Edna had assured him that the docks were rarely guarded. But this thing had apparently changed under Duncan’s command, because when they got there, they noticed four soldiers from Brastàl playing cards in front of a tavern. They seemed to try to distract themselves from a boring duty: having to look for any sign of a blond witcher who would likely never show up. They were not exactly an immediate threat to Anders since they were fifty meters away and the docks were busy despite the cold rain, but just to be on the safe side, three of the young women accompanying him volunteered to go and distract them while Anders got on the boat.

After Anders had paid the boatman who didn’t even look at his face and was just interested in his money, Edna and the other remaining priestess reached for the edge of their dresses to tear up a piece of her petticoats. They tied the white pieces of fabric to Anders’ forearm as tokens to protect him from evil. When it was Edna’s turn to tie hers to his arm, Anders noticed her eyes misted with tears. He still couldn’t figure out what he had done for her to fancy him that much. He probably had to blame it on his natural charm, as usual.  “Promise us you will come back,” she murmured.

He shook his head. “My husband made me that promise and he couldn’t keep it,” he replied in a flat voice. “There are promises it is better not to make.”

Edna gulped and stepped back without a word.

“Farewell,” Anders told her with a polite nod. He led his horse on the deck of the ferry boat and as it casted off, Anders did not look back. He had managed to resist the appeal of the easy life the temple had to offer. He had vanquished temptation, left the Island of Delights and got on with his quest. John would have been proud of him…. if he had known all of what he was doing to save him.  

Anders couldn’t bask in self-approval for very long. The euphoric state the vision had created inside him deflated like a pierced buoy. Anders never really believed in that sort of thing and he still was in the same state of mind when it came to spiritual experiences. The vision had been the result of himself being high on whatever substance the druidess had made him drink. That nice dream had been nothing but a wish-fulfillment. What he had seen was not his real husband. It was John as he wanted to see him – it was his spouse as Anders remembered him. If what Mike had said was true: the real John had given up on everything, including Anders.

Once on the other bank, he climbed in the horse’s saddle and took the road to Longdale right away.

The Aklànder was maybe risking his life to save someone who didn’t want to be saved anymore. But it didn’t change anything for Anders: he was going to save the bastard, whether he wanted it or not.

With a short, resolved shout, he dug his heels into Malà’s flanks, getting her to gallop along the muddy road.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed your read! Let me know!


	9. An Apple, a Pear, a Plum and a Cherry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel like it’s my duty to warn you, since you seem determined to sacrifice everything for him.”
> 
> “Warn me about what?” Anders frowned.
> 
> “There is a thing you need to know about John Mitchell..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, thanks THANKS to Katyushha and Dragon4488 for their hard work. Much love!

One hour after Anders had left Somerled’s ferry, his stomach grumbled for the first time. Half an hour later, it groaned with more insistence. In his haste to get on with his quest, the consort had not thought of taking any food with him. His body was used to regular, rich meals and now it protested against this new and unfair treatment. He was as hungry as when he nursed an especially violent hangover. He had eaten only once in nearly two days and the trance induced by the _airidhe_ had left a nasty taste in his mouth that could only be washed away with a shot of whisky or a cup of wine.

After he had crossed the river in Somerled, the first part of his traveling consisted in following the current of the Eachann river. When Anders casted a look on the river’s silty waters in the last lights of the dying day, he had a revelation. The brown horse from his vision: it was the river. “Eachann” meant “brown horse” in Gaelic. Maybe this was a sign that he was following the right direction and had taken the right decision.

The weather was cold when the night came. The blond man decided not to stop. Despite the saddle between them, the horse transmitted him some warmth and it was all he could get for now. The road, practically deserted at night, was also an advantage for someone who didn’t want to be caught.

 

The road took a turn to the West along the Quigley river. Anders realized that it was wise not to push Màla as much as he would have with Ornàn. She had stamina but she was not a war horse. He alternated between a slow walk and a little trotting. The consort didn’t progress as fast as he wanted to, but he had to spare the mare’s energy. They still had a long ride to Archerwall. Besides, he surely progressed faster than if he was on foot.

 

Anders had studied the geography of the Mitchells’ lands enough to have a fairly good idea of where he was. And when the sun rose over the grey hills, pallid and veiled like a corpse’s face on the funeral pyre, Anders finally laid eyes on houses and shacks: a little village on the bank of the Quigley river.

 

Fhurhain was the obligatory stop for any northern traveler who wished to reach the city of Longdale. Once more, Anders would have to take the risk of catching the ferryboat to continue his journey on the south road. The only way to avoid Fhurhain’s ferry was to travel farther to the west to Eelry. But that choice also meant losing two more precious days. He didn’t even want to think of swimming across the river as an option - not with a horse, and moreover, not at this time of the year.

Fhurhain was only a few hundred meters ahead, but Anders had taken a halt under the cover of the trees and jumped down his horse. He had found what he thought was a good observation post and hadn’t dared leave the protective shadows of the woods to approach the village yet. He had seen a few armed men around the village, but he couldn’t tell if they were soldiers, guards or anything of the same sort. They could only be some members of a local village militia. But for all he knew, it didn’t mean they were less of a threat. He should not forget he had a ten thousand gold pieces reward on his head. It was more than this entire village would earn in ten years.

He hesitated between two plans. The first one was to pass now and try to hide amongst the crowd of customers and merchants crossing the river to go to the weekly market in Longdale. But at the same time, more people meant more chances to be recognized, even if he could get past the guards. The second plan was to wait for the sun to go down and cross when the village would be less busy.

Finding the best option was getting harder as his aching stomach kept on reminding him how hungry he was.  At his feet, he could see a small tuft of green dandelion leaves that had somehow survived the winter and the snow. He knew this plant was edible because his step-mother always sent the servants fetch some in the garden in the spring, when she wanted to make a regime. Anders had never accepted to try them, but maybe now was the time. Maybe at least it would calm the cramps for a little while, until he could find something decent to eat.

He crouched down, reached a hand and plucked one of the dandelion leaves.  He didn’t give himself the time to look at its unappetizing aspect or to check if there was any dirt on it. If he hesitated too much, he wouldn’t have the courage to do it. He just shoved it into his mouth and chewed. He winced and pinched his lips when the bitter taste of the sap touched his tongue. He screwed his eyes shut as if somehow the absence of sight could reduce the awfulness of the taste. He gave up and spat it to the ground.   _“Nope, sorry. I can’t do that,_ ” he mentally apologized to his empty stomach. He threw a glare at the offending plant, like it was its fault if it tasted so horrible. He didn’t have more time to complain to himself about his current ravenous state when he heard the neigh of a horse close to his hiding spot.

Heart drumming like the one of a hunted animal, Anders tied Màla to a tree trunk and tiptoed away in the forest as silently as possible. He couldn’t take the chance that the mare replied to the other horse’s call and that he got discovered. He preferred that they found a horse alone in the woods and took it away from him than get caught and finish in Brastàl’s jails with Boyd Cailean and the poachers. If Anders ended up there, this time Madraid Aileen and her priestesses would not be there to save him from getting beaten up or raped.

Anders lied on his stomach behind a big rock and waited. The sounds of horses seemed to recede toward the village, but he chose to stay there for a few more minutes… just in case.

As it was quiet for some time now, so Anders started to think of standing up. But suddenly, his left eye caught movement next to him and something cold was pressed to the side of his neck.

He jerked and reached for the dagger to his belt.   

He let out a sigh when he realized the cold thing was not any weapon but the tiny pointy nose of a fox. “Gods!” he cursed in a low, relieved whisper. “You want me to die of a heart attack or what?“ he scolded Tiolam, astonished to find her there. He grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. She went limp and didn’t resist when the blond man dragged her closer and kissed the top of her triangular head. He ruffled her soft fur while giving his heart the time to slow down. She had apparently escaped the priestesses’ guard and followed him. “I will never be able to get rid of you, will I?” he told her in a fond, quiet tone. She made a happy, cooing purr and rolled onto her back in his arms, stretching her neck to lick his chin. He wondered how she had crossed the Eachann river. Maybe she had managed to sneak into a boat, but she had more likely swum.

As he didn’t hear anything suspicious anymore, he stood up with the fox in his arms and before he could do anything, Tiolam pushed open the flap of his leather bag and got into it without a fuss. Anders couldn’t help a small chuckle. She seemed really determined to accompany him.

He went back to the tree where he had tied the horse. He had taken his decision. It was pointless to wait more. The more he pondered, the longer he left to the nomads to rip up his husband’s soft skin and bath in his blood. It was not a time for hesitation but for action.

He gathered branches and found a rope inside the mare’s saddle to tie it together in a large faggot that he put on the horse’s back. He would pretend to be a brushwood merchant going to sell his merchandize in Longdale. He smeared mud on his coat to hide the quality of his clothes that didn’t match the character he impersonated.

He walked his horse into the village by the bridle and to the docks. He kept his face down under his hood. His only hope was to pass incognito among the other travelers. There were not many of them. Anders had stayed hidden longer than he thought, and as a result, it was close to midday and Longdale’s market was nearly over; which meant that not many people wished to cross the river in that direction.

Anders froze when he saw that the boarding was controlled by soldiers from Longdale’s city guard. This was going to be a real challenge to get on that ferryboat unnoticed.    

“As ordered by the Great Lord,” one of the guards announced loudly, “all individuals who wish to pass have to give their names and the one of their ancestors on three generations.”

“That’s just great,” a man near Anders complained in a grumpy whisper. “Do they want to know my favorite color as well?”

“It’s because Duncan is still searching for Lord Mitchell’s husband,” his neighbor explained.

“Well, I hope they will find him soon. A sorcerer is already dangerous enough on his own, I can’t imagine what would happen if he joined the enemies,” the grumpy man groaned.

“There is absolutely no proof that he’s a sorcerer or that he’s on the enemies’ side,” the other man objected.

As they spoke, Anders stepped back slowly, dragging his horse with him. He didn’t want to stay to know the outcome of their argument. He had made a mistake trying to take the ferry boat. Even if he lied, there was still a chance the guards would identify him. The people in the queue for the ferry didn’t pay much attention to him and, at least, he succeeded in leaving the docks unnoticed by the guards.

He walked around the village and took a small path along the river, trying to find a solution to his current problem. He noticed a young man down the bank, loading wood logs on a large boat. The boat was surely large enough to accommodate two men and a horse.  

Anders hailed the young man without preamble. “I need to cross the river. I can pay,” he told him.  

The boatman gave Anders a bored look. “I don’t do that,” he snorted. “Why don’t you take the ferry?”  

Anders crossed his arms. “Six silver pieces,” he simply said.

A greedy sparkle appeared in the man’s eyes. “What, really?”

 Anders suddenly had his full attention.

“Yes,” the Aklànder confirmed. “Three pieces now and three more when we reach the south bank.”

The boatman rubbed the back of his neck. “Er… I…” he hesitated. Taking Anders aboard meant that he could take fewer logs, but six silver pieces was far more than he would earn with his cargo.

“Decide now or I find someone else,” Anders bluffed.

“Fine, welcome aboard,” the young man decided, jumping on the bank to help Anders get Màla into the boat.  

***

It was past noon by then. The market was over. A freezing, humid wind rushed into Longdale’s streets like a furious beast. The citizens had hastened to regain the comfort of their homes. Most merchants were gone as well, except the toy maker and the cobbler. And as hungry as Anders was, he was not going to eat a wooden horse or a shoe. He finally spotted a woman who was finishing loading her baskets in a donkey drawn cart. Judging by the crowd of pigeons eating crumbles around her display, he assumed she was a baker.

Anders walked up to her cart. “I’m sorry to be so late, ma’am, but do you have anything left to sell?” he asked her right away.

“I think so,” the girl replied, running a hand in her hair as she detailed him. The flour in her brown hair made her look older than she was.  “It’s nice; the ornament to your bag,” she commented.

“What?” Anders asked, looking down.

“The fox tail,” the girl specified, and indeed, there was a long, ginger, furry tail hanging to the side of the leather bag.

“Oh… yes, yes. Thanks,” he replied, forcing himself to stay polite. She had no way to know that the tail was the one of a very much alive fox hidden inside. He prayed that Tiolam didn’t start to move he had no idea how he was going to explain that. Having a pet fox was not exactly a common thing and he didn’t want it to be a way to identify him as the former Great Consort.

He had no time to waste on small talk. All he wanted was buy something to eat, but the girl didn’t seem in any hurry to serve him. Instead, she just studied him with curiosity, which made Anders more and more uncomfortable.  

“Is it the latest fashion in Aklànd?” she questioned.

This question could be a trap. “What makes you think I’m from Aklànd?” he asked, wary.

“Oh, aren’t you? I thought I had recognized the aklanders’ accent when you spoke.”

“What accent? I don’t have an accent!” he protested with a frown. “Look, is there any leftovers you can sell me? I’m not fussy.”

“Er…’ she hesitated, turning around and fumbling in her cart. Anders took this opportunity to tuck Tiolam’s tail back inside the bag. “I have a bag of candied almonds here,” she offered, taking a paper bag from a basket. This luxury treat must not be something most citizens could afford after a long, hard winter. It was logical that she would have some left.

The mention of candied almonds made Anders gulp and he could swear he had a taste of dead rats in his mouth suddenly. Even if those almonds were not likely to contain any fatal ingredient, it would be useless if he bought food only to throw it up later. “NO! No candied almonds, anything but that,” he urged her.

“Fine, let me see what else I have,” she obeyed, searching among her empty bags with the exasperating slowness of a crippled turtle.

As she was searching, Anders looked around and for some reason, his eyes followed the walk of a tall man with a brown kilt and a hammer in his hand. The man walked past Anders and went directly to a signpost a few meters away from the Aklànder. He took a poster from his bag and nailed it to the signpost. When the man left, Anders could get a good view on the poster. His eyes widened.

It was his face drawn on it.

Whoever had made this poster was a good illustrator, and moreover, they knew exactly what Anders looked like… at least with long hair. The piece of paper announced a generous reward to anybody who could help the authorities arrest Anders Johan Deaghan Johnson Mitchell.

The girl let out a groan of victory when she finally found two half-crumbled pastries at the bottom of a basket. She turned around, but her customer had disappeared. “Sir?” she asked, incredulous, but Anders was gone for good.

***

The city of Longdale was behind him, forgotten but not forgiven since Anders’ stomach was still empty and cramped.

 

_A soul, soul, a soul cake_

_Please good mistress, a soul cake_

_An Apple, a Pear, a Plum and a Cherry_

_Any good thing to make a soul merry_

 

Anders hummed this verse like a complaint as Màla slowed down from a trot to a walk on the little road.

This was the song of the beggars who went from house to house during the first week of winter. Anders pondered that he was not different from them now. He had money, but he couldn’t feed on silver and gold pieces. Not just his stomach, but also his heart tightened when he thought back about the luxury in used to live in when he was still a nobleman of Aklànd and then Brastàl’s court. John always made sure they had the most refined food and drinks of the best quality. Those days were gone. Now he would give a castle (if he still had one), just to get anything eatable. And he would probably be ready to kill to have a basket of fresh, yellow plums. Mike was probably right afterall. He was a lightweight who wouldn’t survive more than two days in the hills.

Anders was still singing the song when he rode past a mill. The road took a turn downhill, along a stone wall. Anders noticed a little boy with a red tam hat seated on the top of the wall, eating a slice of bread. The boy had heard the consort’s song and started to sing along.

_“Indeed I hope you will be kind_

_with your apples and your beer_

_and I will come and sing no more_

_‘til this time next year”_ he completed when Anders passed in front of him.

The consort pulled on the reins to make the horse take a halt.

“Are you lost?” the boy asked Anders around his mouthful. He was maybe eight or nine years old and he smiled; curious and unafraid. The Aklànder couldn’t help but stare at the slice of bread the child chewed on.

“Do you want some?” the little boy offered. “You look hungry,” he observed.

Anders was ravenous, but he was not going to steal the bread from a peasant kid’s mouth. The blond man shook his head and thanked him for the offer. “Do you know where I could get a hot meal, though?” he still asked, when a shiver of cold and exhaustion went down his spine. Maybe now that he was out of the city and in the countryside, it was less dangerous for him to stop and ask for food.  

“Yes! My mother and my aunt cook a hot meal every night” the boy beamed, happy to be of help. “I’m sure there will be enough for you as well. We live at the mill,” he informed Anders, pointing at the windmill further up road.    

This was most probably the safest way the consort could get food and maybe a shelter for the night. He let himself slip down his saddle.

“I’m Eoghan MacNeil!” the boy introduced himself, jumping down the wall. He held his hand out for Anders to shake, a ceremonious expression on his young face.

“Nice to meet you, Eoghan” the consort smiled, shaking the small hand “I’m…..John,” Anders lied. “John Ualan,” he completed as the boy seemed to expect a full name. It was maybe the dumbest choice ever, but he couldn’t take it back anymore.  

Associating the sound of a young voice with the perspective of being petted and cuddled, Tiolam peeked out of the leather bag. Anders knew he could not hide her forever. If she trusted the child - he had to trust him as well.  

***

“So, John, what brings you to Longdale?” Eoghan’s mother inquired as she put a bowl of steaming stew on the table in front of the Aklànder. Instead of replying right away, Anders shoved a big spoonful into his mouth. It burned his tongue, but he didn’t care. He swallowed it eagerly.

The stew was made of unsalted boiled barley with sparse dices of turnip and a symbolic amount of meat. Usually, Anders would ask where the real food was, but he couldn’t afford to be picky and for someone who was ready to pluck dandelions, a homey meal was more than he could hope for.

All the people gathered around the table watched him eat with the voracity of a bear. Mrs MacNeil dried her hands on her apron with a satisfied smile, taking his hunger for a compliment to her cooking.   

As soon as the little boy had brought his new friend into the house, Anders had been introduced to every member of the family who ran the windmill.  He got to learn that Eoghan’s father died a few years ago. The boy lived with his mother Nella and her older sister Hendra Fingall; a petite woman with a crooked nose. Hendra was the mistress of the house and the master was her husband Ewen.

‘Where are you travelling to, if it’s not too indiscreet? The south is not a much recommended destination these days,” Ewen pointed out, cutting himself a slice of bread.  

Anders put his spoon down and Hendra hastened to stand up to refill his bowl.

“I’m searching for my husband,” Anders explained, with a grief in his voice he didn’t even have to fake. “He left with our lord’s army and never came back. I’m trying to know what happened to him. If I can’t find him alive, I want to bring his remains back home and give him the last honors.” This was a believable story. He was surely not the only one in this situation in the North Hills, and he had learnt that a half-truth was often safer to say than a complete lie. It made it less risky to get busted on details.  

“I’m sorry to hear about your husband,” Nella said with a saddened expression as she handed her son a sheep bone for him to feed Tiolam. “So many didn’t return,” she added in a hushed tone.  

Eoghan sat on the floor with the fox and giggled when Tiolam licked his chin.

 

As he emptied his bowl for the second time and listened to the child’s laughter, Anders wondered when was the last time he himself had laughed or even smiled for real.

From the opposite side of the table, Ewen scrutinized his guest but he didn’t ask more questions.

The boy’s mother, on the other hand, seemed keen on sharing. Probably because, having lost her spouse herself, she could relate to Anders in many ways. “Were you married for a long time?” she inquired softly.

“Two years,” Anders spontaneously said. It was a lie, but somehow it felt more real than saying that he’d been married to John only a handful of moons.

“How did you two meet?” the mistress of the house questioned him. The sisters looked sorry for him, but obviously, they did not realize it was only making it worse for Anders.

“Our fathers were friends,” Anders answered. He hoped it would satisfy them because he could not enter in the details of his arranged marriage.

It’s Ewen who took over him to be the saving bell.

“Ladies,” he declared, standing up, “you should leave the poor man in peace. Why don’t you come with me, John?” he offered the blond man. “I think I still have a good bottle of whisky at the mill and I’m sure you can use a stiff drink after that interrogatory.”

“Sure,” Anders accepted as he stood up. He thanked the two women and followed the miller outside.

The cloudless sky made the night so cold the air was almost crisp. The frozen grass crackled under their boots as the two men walked to the windmill. Once they had whisky in their cups and they had toasted to the hope of seeing this long winter come to an end, they fell in a meditative silence.

Ewen Fingall was a handsome-looking man, Anders observed.  Not as strikingly gorgeous as John Mitchell, but with his charming smile and laughing grey eyes, he had an undeniable charisma.

“I know a ‘John’ from Brastàl,’ the miller declared, leaning against the nearest beam.

The Aklànder’s heartbeat quickened a bit, but he told himself not to read too much into this affirmation. “Well. It’s quite a common name. I can’t pretend I know all the Johns in the North Hills,” Anders said with a little laugh, in a tone that wanted to be casual.  

“Probably not,” the brown-haired man conceded, “but I’m pretty sure you know the one I’m speaking about. He was the first heir of Clan Mitchell and became our Great Lord in the recent past.”

“Of course I know who he is,” Anders nodded with a nervous chuckle. “Like everyone else does.”

Ewen bore his grey gaze into the consort’s and his tone was incisive when he said: “Aye. But I bet that being married to him gave you a good opportunity to get to know him better than most North Hillers. ”

 

 

 

Anders' heart dropped. That was it. The miller knew. That was how he was going to be betrayed and sold to Lord Duncan. The man had probably locked the door of the mill and maybe there were even soldiers waiting for him outside. Maybe he put a drug or even a poison in his drink. Anders dropped his goblet. It bounced and spilled its content on the ground. The consort reached for his weapon and even if he noticed the gesture, the other man didn’t move, still sipping from his own drink.

“You know who I am,” Anders finally said after a long moment of tense hesitation.  

Ewen nodded.

“Let me guess,” Anders grumbled, “you are another one of his ex-lovers, are you?”

“Guilty!” the miller conceded, showing Anders the palm of his hand.

The consort still had his hand on his dagger, but he relaxed a little since the other man didn’t seem to be an immediate threat. “How many of you are there, for the spirits’ sake?” Anders despaired.

“Not as many as you think,” the miller deadpanned.

“How did you know who I was?”

“John told me about you,” Ewen explained. “I noticed the color of your eyes and then, when I heard that you went by the surname of Lord James’ former squire, I added one plus one.”

Choosing that name was a stupid idea, given that Ruaidhri’s father had worked as a squire for the Mitchells in the past. This might be common knowledge for people who grew up in Brastàl.

Anders’ eyes narrowed. “Are you going to denounce me?”

The miller had a smirk as he reached for the bottle and emptied it to the last drop into his goblet. “From what I’ve heard, it would make me very rich.”

“Yes. And it would also make you a huge arsehole.”

“True that!” Ewen admitted with a snicker, but he was serious when he spoke up again. “Besides, I don’t like Lord Duncan enough to give him that pleasure.”

The younger man seemed sincere and Anders’ hand let go of its grip around the hilt of his dagger. He still stayed alert in case the miller was just trying to buy time.

“So… if I understood well, you are on a suicide mission to find Mitchell. Your level of commitment is touching I must say,” the brown-haired man commented. There was no sarcasm in his voice, but instead, something else that Anders didn’t like either. “You must love him a lot,” the miller observed after a few, thoughtful seconds.  

The consort wanted to retort that his feelings were none of his business, but he didn’t verbalize it. Reacting to this provocation would only manage to fuel the other man’s nosiness.

“It’s funny, this plot twist,” the miller mused, but his tone let Anders believe that he was not really amused. ”Because the last time I met him, John didn’t seem exactly happy with you. Things must have changed a lot since then.”

“They did,” Anders confirmed. Something itched at the edge of his brain, like it wanted to bubble at the surface. The bubble burst out all of a sudden and the same image that had made Anders stop kissing the priestess unfolded in his mind again: two embraced silhouettes in the darkness of a circular room, their lips locked in an intimate exchange. The truth was that Anders had not seen much of the man John was kissing on that stormy night. Only to witness the scene had been enough to awake a violent jealousy inside him and he had not exactly stuck around to introduce himself to John’s kissing partner. He had not even wanted to look in the stranger’s direction. All he desired had been just to flee from the temple, from John and from the city….

Anders felt around his sternum the clench of anger and he balled his hands in tight fists. “It’s such a relief to know that you were there to comfort him with a sweet kiss when times were hard. It was very thoughtful of you,” Anders thanked the miller, his tone soaked in resentment.

It didn’t seem to move the miller much. “I don’t have any merit in this. It was easy,” he chuckled, looking down into his goblet. “Your husband didn’t offer much resistance, I must say.”

“If I were you, I’d strongly consider the option of shutting your mouth right now,” Anders warned him between gritted teeth.

“I would gladly do, my lord,” Ewen said with a shrug, “but I feel like it’s my duty to warn you, since you seem determined to sacrifice everything for him.”

“Warn me about what?” Anders frowned.

“There is a thing you need to know about John Mitchell: he doesn’t really do love….at least not really. He seeks forgiveness, comfort, oblivion, stability, security, but not love. John loved you because he had to - because his father asked him to. He loved out of duty. It’s very like him to do that sort of thing.”

The frown hadn’t left the blond man’s face. “How can you know that?”

“Hm…” Ewen scratched his chin and looked at the ceiling, pretending to be in a deep reflection. “Tell me. When was the first time he told you he loved you or called you an intimate name?”

Anders didn’t have to search for long. He remembered it as clear as day. It was the very first time he and John got to speak in private. Anders was outside on the rooftop after he had escaped the banquet in the Great Hall and the company of his betrothed. _“Are you fine, my love?”_ his fiancé had asked when he had found him there, standing outside in the cold. They barely knew each other back then. They only had exchanged a few sentences and John was already pulling the sweet endearments.

“That’s what I thought. It didn’t take long, did it?” the miller observed when he read the answer in Anders’ mutism. “Of course you are precious to him,” he conceded. “Nobody can deny that. You are from a wealthy and prestigious clan. With this marriage, he had gained Lord Johnson’s undying loyalty.”

Anders made a face, wrinkling his nose as if he was in front of something especially stinky. His fists clenched and unclenched in turn. He was torn between anger and sorrow. He could see that the miller wanted to provoke him, but at the same time, there was this nasty little voice in his head that told him the man was not entirely wrong.  And John had every reason to regret this marriage now, giving where it had led him. But even if he was assaulted by doubts, he couldn’t let the miller win this argument.

“If John only pretended to love me, then shame on me; I fell for it. He was pretty darn convincing,” Anders hissed. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to accomplish here,” he challenged the other man, “but it’s not going to work. You are clearly bitter because you wanted more from John and the only thing he ever did was to fuck you. Maybe he broke your little heart, but that doesn’t mean he is going to do the same with mine,” Anders went on in one breath. “Just because you hate the fact he wed a nobleman like me instead of a mere peasant like you doesn’t give you the right to judge my marriage and assume things about us you can’t possibly know.”

Ewen Fingall had lost his cooling and anger flared in his grey irises. Anders had obviously hit a sensitive nerve. “I’ve been his lover for five years. And you, you’ve been his husband for what: five moons?” he snorted. “And let’s not speak about the fact you didn’t even let him touch you on your wedding night while any man in his right mind would have considered it an honor.”

Anders’ lips parted in a silent gasp. How could this prick know about the failure of the Great Lord’s first attempts at bedding him? John would have neve shared that private information…. _he would have never…._

Not making a move to pick the goblet he had dropped earlier, Anders simply turned around and headed for the door. He didn’t care about having the last word anymore.

“Come on, Your Grace!” the miller hailed him before Anders could leave. “I’m sorry if I spoke harshly, but you can’t be mad at me for missing the good lay that John Mitchell is.”

Anders stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned around to face the brown-haired man who went on with a perverse smirk: “Now that you’ve tasted the merchandize, don’t tell me you never noticed how John always keeps that greedy mouth of his busy as he pounds inside you – how those dirty lips never leave your skin.”  

Keeping a neutral face, Anders walked toward the miller who didn’t pick up that this was his cue to shut his mouth.

“He likes to appear as this indomitable warlord who would never kneel for anybody,” Ewen continued, “but it’s funny how eager he gets when it comes to put his head between a man’s legs. He is such a-”

That’s when Anders slapped him across the face.

The miller had not seen it coming. His expression was one of utter disbelief when he reached for his painful, burning right cheek where the back of Anders’ hand had collided.  

“It’s my husband and your Great Lord you are speaking about,” Anders groaned. “Show some respect.”

The miller hadn’t expected the Great Consort to retaliate. He had underestimated Anders’ protective instinct, and to be fair, Anders was not even aware he possessed one. “I’m… so…rry” the younger man stammered, still under shock.   

“You better be,” the blond man growled. He didn’t feel any hint of shame or guilt, but his voice had lost a bit of its aggressiveness when he said: “Don’t worry. I won’t put your family in danger. I’ll be gone in the morning and you’ll never see me again.”

Without a word, Anders left the mill and went back to the house. When he tiptoed in, the common room was silent and he assumed the two women and the little boy were already asleep in their beds. The consort took off his boots and placed them next to the door. He went to his small hay-stuffed mattress on the floor next to the fireplace. He lay on his side and Tiolam came to snuggle against his chest.

 Anders looked at the fire in silence. The miller’s words were still turning in his mind. As much as it hurt, he knew Ewen was right on some points. John was a man of his word and he had honored his father’s promise by making all he could to make their wedding happen, even if it meant convincing himself he had feelings he didn’t really have. Anders thought back about the pillow talk he had had with his husband on the night before he left for war. It was obvious that what John was seeking in their relationship was exactly what Fingall had described: comfort, stability and forgiveness. But Anders refused to believe that everything they had together had been a lie. The most awful thing was that the miller’s warnings had awoken a lot of doubts in the Aklànder’s mind. Was Anders doing the same mistake he had done on the day of John’s departure: thinking of himself as a warrior hero he clearly wasn’t? He had never been a warrior and even less a hero. _“You see yourself either as the innocent victim of all that mess or the man who is going to fix it,”_ he told himself, _“but did you ever think about the fact that_ _it’s mainly because of you that John had lost the loyalty of his army?”_ Maybe his husband wasn’t waiting for him as a savior, but hated him for being the cause of his doom.

Moving to the side carefully not to wake the vixen, Anders reached inside his coat and took a pile of folded paper out of his pocket - all the letters John had written to him while he was away. Anders had taken them with him, in case they could give him some clue about how to find his husband. But he could see now that keeping them was risky. They tied him to the Great Lord. He quickly hid them when he heard the door open. Fingall entered the house and crossed the common space to get to his bedroom. As soon as the house was silent again, Anders took the letters from under his mattress, but he didn’t make a move to unfold any of them and read.  He sat up and placed the pile of paper in the fire. As they burnt, he remembered a sentence from one of the letters. This precise letter was not in the fireplace since it had been shred to pieces as soon as Anders had read it. _“Don't forget that you were loved, Anders: deeply, strongly and tenderly. Never, ever let anybody make you believe otherwise.”_ But Anders had failed somehow, since Fingall had made him doubt.

 

***

Anders woke before dawn, along with the other occupants of the house.

The miller had a sheepish expression and still sported the red mark of Anders’ hand on his face, but nobody commented on it as the women and the little boy bid a warm farewell to “John Ualan” and his fox. Anders offered to pay for his stay. but Hendra looked indignant and refused his money. The consort thanked the women profusely for their hospitality.  

“Good luck,” Ewen muttered, avoiding the consort’s gaze.

Anders replied with a curt nod before he passed the door and left for good.

 

***

The south road had never been a busy one, and now, with the presence of the Nomads and their allies on this side of the Lileas River, it was emptier than ever.  Anders saw a few shepherds with their sheep from afar, but he didn’t stop to make the conversation.

 

Sometimes, between two hills, Anders could find the shelter of a little wood area, but mainly, the landscape was one of rocky hills where only some ligneous grass grew. Even Màlà didn’t seem to find it tasty as she chewed on it without enthusiasm.

 

There were not many villages between Longdale and Archerwall. Most clachans along the road were abandoned. Since the reign of the 9th Great Lord (John’s grand-father), the amelioration of life quality in the cities had provoked an important rural depopulation, and those remote villages had been the first to be deserted. Needless to say that Anders hadn’t had many occasions to enjoy the hospitality of an inhabited home during his crossing of the hills.

Coupled to the problem of the lack of human company was also another one, even more pressing. Anders had never experienced real starvation before – this hunger that annihilates any other thoughts from your mind as food becomes an obsession of every second. Before he left the mill, Nella had given Anders a basket with dried sausages, bread and a bag of biscuits that had no taste whatsoever apart from a vaguely salty one. In truth, Anders couldn’t help but think of sawdust when Nella had insisted he tried one. He didn’t know that four days later, he would eat the biscuits like they were the most delicious thing in the world. He had made the mistake of eating the sausages and all the bread within the first two days of his travel. Then, he realized he had to spare his food. He didn’t eat the following day, and when he finally decided to eat one of the biscuits, he even closed his eyes in bliss because any food would have appeared to him like the best thing in the world. The next day it rained cats and dogs and the leftover biscuits got soaked and were wasted. Thirst though was not an issue since water was constantly falling from the sky, much to the blond man’s displeasure.

Along the road, Anders got to see rabbits, deer and wild boars, but being alone and with two daggers for only weapons, he could forget any ambition of hunting them. One day, at dusk, he also crossed the path of a herd of cows. The bull, quite impressive with its thick, brown coat and long horns, didn’t seem to like Anders much and he even tried to charge him. “Calm down, man! I’m not going to steal your darlings!” the consort tried to appease the angry beast, but he figured out that taking his leave as fast as possible was the best option.  

One night, Anders slept under an oak and in the morning, out of the blue he remembered the history lessons he had as a child. During the reign of the 4th Great Lord, there had been a famine and since people didn’t have wheat to make bread anymore, they would use dried acorns and pulverize them to make flour. It meant that Anders had slept all night long on something potentially edible. He gathered a little heap of acorns and cracked a few of them between two rocks. He plucked the fruits inside and put them carefully into his mouth. The taste was not great. He cracked thirty more, forced himself to eat ten and put the rest in his bag for later.  

Tiolam disappeared from his sight from time to time. She had grown into a lovely young vixen over the winter. Anders wondered how to have a sex-talk with a fox and warn her about males who would want to get touchy-feely. He finally reasoned that whatever he could say or do, if she wanted to reproduce, he would not be able to prevent it. It always made him anxious when he couldn’t find his fox, even if he knew she would come back. But the vixen was his only solace in these lands of desolation, and while he was genuinely attached to her, her warmth could sometimes make the difference between life and death when the nights were windy and rainy.

The humid cold: this was another evil. It felt to the Aklànder as if it got into his bones and stayed there. Sometimes it even seemed to radiate from the inside.

Fortunately, Tiolam always came back from her escapades an hour or so after she flew from Anders’ guardianship, content and with her belly full. The Aklànder figured out he would not have to worry to find something to feed her since she could hunt by herself. One evening, she even came back dragging a barely chewed rabbit to her master, for which Anders’ empty stomach was most grateful. As the rabbit roasted on a fire that he had built on the dry ground under the roof of an old barn, the smell of the meat brought him back to Brastàl’s Great Hall. It conjured memories from another life: the music of the uilleann pipe, the servants coming and going around the tables like performing a sort of dance, the smile in John’s hazel eyes, the wine taste of his kisses, the smoothness of his hand over Anders’ forearm as he leaned forward to whisper something in his ear.

Then, his mind wandered through the hills and to the East. Taking an imaginary road along the coast, it went up North to Aklànd. He wondered what Ty was doing at this precise moment and if Axl was back home yet.

Anders fell asleep, replaying in his head old memories of falconry and fishing trips with his brothers in Apple Bay.  

***

The harsh cries of the black birds announced that Anders had reached a new part of his journey. Flying in circles in the dark sky, quarrelling with ominous cawings, the crows made Anders expect the worse. The road seemed to go in their direction and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see what they were feasting on.

Anders felt his stomach rising in his throat when he caught the stench of rotting meat. He was at the crossroad where the path split between the road that led to Carraig, (the capital of the Fergusons’ lands) and the one going to Archerwall. Which part of the country was occupied by the enemy was made clear by five corpses tied upside down to wooden poles.

The nomads’ burial custom was to place their own dead standing up in a narrow hole. The standing station was believed to give the dead the possibility to walk into the afterlife. Tying the bodies of theirs enemies by the feet was made as a humiliation, but it was also a way for the nomads to make sure the souls would not get into the afterlife and would stay stuck in the skeletons forever.   

The North Hills soldiers looked like dismembered, broken dolls. They had been stripped from their kilts since the nomads used to steal the good, woolen fabric. The work of the crows had made their faces unrecognizable, but according to the color of their tabards, the consort could see that three of them were from the Blackwoods’ army, one was from the McGregors’ and one from the Johnsons’. Seized by a disgusted fascination, Anders couldn’t tear his eyes from the disfigured form wearing the black and red tabard of his former clan.

This morbid display was a warning to be taken seriously. Nobody in their right mind would take this direction willingly. But Anders had not travelled all this way to turn around now. There was not much saliva to swallow when Anders gulped and bravely pushed Màlà to walk past the dead bodies and the flock of crows that scolded at the blond man who had interrupted their breakfast.

There were more wooden poles and bodies on the road – maybe soldiers who had been caught as they fled the fallen city. Anders was afraid to look, not only because he knew he could still end up the same way, but mainly because he was scared to recognize his lover among them.

To his relief, none of them had any characteristic that could make Anders think they could be the Great Lord. One was sporting a wedding tattoo on his bare wrist. Fortunately, it wasn’t a burning log but a fish. But it meant that someone in the North Hills was mourning this man who had been everything to them. Maybe, just like Anders, they still had hope. They still thought they would get to hold their beloved in their arms again.  

Throat constricted with a strangling distress, Anders rode until nightfall.

He felt like he was reaching the end of his journey. So close, yet so far… He was near Archerwall now, but he had no idea if John was in the city or even anywhere near it. Moreover, Anders didn’t have any plan yet on what to do to obtain that information.

He would sleep and find a solution in the morning. For now his body was broken, aching, exhausted, and he needed all the sleep he could wrest from that chilly night’s grip in order to be able to think again. He still had two acorns and a bit of the rabbit’s meat in the horse’s saddle, but he doubted he could eat after what he had seen today.

He stopped near a little creek where Tiolam and the horse took a few gulps of water.

With a last little pat to her flank, Anders tied Màla to the low branch of a tree for the night. He walked away about fifty steps and found a big rock that could shelter him from the wind. He pulled a spare kilt from his bag and wrapped himself into it. He lied down in a heap of leaves with a sigh. Tiolam pushed on his elbow with her head and the blond man opened his arms for her to snuggle against his chest. Sleep came surprisingly fast.

***

What woke him up was the absence of that furry ball of heat on his chest.

This was strange since Tiolam never left him while he was asleep. She always waited for Anders to be on his horse to disappear. But it was still early and she was already gone.

Anders sat up. He scanned the forest around, convinced she couldn’t be far away. He waited and listened, but she seemed to be truly gone. Was it for good this time? He called her name. Not very loud, because he knew he was on hostile territory, and besides, foxes had keen ears. The yelping reply didn’t come. “Tiolam!!” he called again, a bit louder.

Then, it struck him: something must have scared her away.

And when Anders realized that it was the only reason why she would have gone so early, it was already too late. He heard a frightened neigh and something was shoved on his head that obscured his vision. As he brought his hands to his face in an instinctive attempt to get rid of what blinded him, he understood that his head was in a fabric bag.

He was pushed to the ground and two additional pairs of hands grabbed him. There were shouting voices around him – words that Anders didn’t catch.  As he yelled and tried to kick his aggressors, in his mind he saw Gus and his mad eyes.

He could remember the thief’s bad breath and his voice telling him to stay still. Anders’ weapons were soon taken from him and he couldn’t see anything, but he tried to punch, bite, and scratch any piece of flesh he could reach. He spat curses and insults at his adversaries. The fear of getting raped made his voice high-pitched and squeaky.

He was soon tied up with his hands behind his back and strong arms picked him up. Anders squirmed to free himself but he was thrown, face down on a horse’s back and strapped at the back of a saddle like a freshly killed deer. The blond man tried to struggle out of his bonds as the horse started walking, but he realized the people who had tied him up knew their business and that he was wasting his time. He had let himself get caught like an amateur. Not that he had ever been an expert in suicide missions. He imagined that was more John’s territory. But still, he should have seen it coming and not made it so easy for his abductors, whoever they were.

“Where are you bringing me?” Anders grunted, in a voice he hoped was threatening in some ways.

His question was ignored, but two of the men exchanged a few sentences that Anders didn’t quite understand. It sounded like Gaelic, and the consort swore he had recognized a few familiar words among the foreign ones. Then, he remembered that the people from the plains spoke Gaelic, but one that had evolved separately and differently than the old North Hills’ one. There was no doubt in his mind now that those men were Nomads.

Anders’ blood turned cold in his veins when he imagined himself being skinned alive by their shaman. But at the same time, being taken prisoner was maybe this was his best chance to find John. He held on to that fragile hope as he was bouncing and swaying at the back of the horse’s saddle like a sack of grain.

He tried to keep tracks of the direction and the turns they took, but not seeing anything made it impossible to keep landmarks in memory and at some point he just gave up, letting himself hang limply both sides of the horse’s rump like a dead weight.

He still stayed attentive to what the men said to one another. While he couldn’t make out the sense of most sentences, but he understood enough words to understand that they were discussing the directions to take. They spoke of the loch, about a boat and an encampment. In short, nothing that was immediately useful to Anders.    

The blond man wasn’t sure for how long they rode like that without a single stop.  He had lost any notion of time. He only had a clue of what time it was when, at some point, he could see the light fading through the fabric of the bag covering his head. His muscles were sore and his head drumming from having been upside down all day long, but it was his dried throat and his full bladder that tortured him the most.

When they finally stopped and took him down the horse, Anders begged the nomad men to let him have a piss. He repeated the words “need” and “urine” as many time as it took for them to finally free his hands. They didn’t even let him take the bag off his head. Blinded as he was, Anders didn’t know how many people were around him. Any attempt at escaping had to be forgotten. Not bothering if he had a public or not, he hastened to lift his kilt and relieve himself on the spot. As soon as he was over, a cold bottleneck was pressed to his lips. “òl!,” a voice ordered and Anders took a few gulps of what seemed to be water. The liquid managed to soothe his throat a little. Then, he was twined again like a piece of meat on the butcher’s display, but instead of being thrown on a horse, he was carried on someone’s back for a few meters before he was shoved into a canoe.

He could feel the humid air and hear the lapping of small waves hitting the cockle. As he felt the canoe leave the bank, Anders curled into a motionless ball. The last thing he wanted was to be the cause of a capsizing. With his hands tied up, he would be the first to drown.

Fortunately, no such thing happened and the nomad who paddled made him reach the other side of the river alive.

The nomad men untied Anders’ legs. They pulled on his bonds and they pushed him forward to make him walk… and walk he did, for long hours, until his legs felt weak and his muscles deprived from any tonus.

When the ambient light under the bag’s fabric turned from the black of the night to the blue of the dawn, Anders heard new voices ahead.  He heard the cry of a baby and the whining of a young child. He deduced that he was approaching a village, or rather a nomad encampment. Soon, he was surrounded by several voices all speaking this weird kind of Gaelic.  

Someone cut the ropes around his wrists and pulled the bag off his head. He blinked a few times: his blurry vision not accustomed to the clarity. He didn’t really have the time to see anything besides the exterior of a large tent before he was pushed inside it and that the leather flap securing the door was closed behind him.

The consort sat up slowly, rubbing his bruised wrists. The interior of the tent was dark and it stunk. It was a stench of sickness, sweat, blood, putrefaction and other things Anders didn’t even want to think about.

Anders was contemplating the ideas of just curling up in foetal position on the spot and sleep, when there was a cough nearby. The blond man wasn’t alone in the tent and the low tone of the cough indicated he was sharing it with a man.

Anders had the reflex to brace himself, convinced he was going to get hit, until his eyes got used to the dim light. He could discern a human form: its hands tied behind its back and around the central pole of the tent.

Anders stayed put, like paralyzed, as the growing light of the sunrise helped him detail the prisoner. His head was bent down. Anders couldn’t see his face since it was hidden behind a curtain of shoulder-length black hair. He wore a dark coat and his legs were covered by a dirty kilt.

As Anders crawled closer to take a better look, his hand touched something on the ground of the tent. A piece of fabric. He closed his fingers around the object and brought it to his eyes level to examine it.

He held a fingerless glove in his hand.

His heart skipped a beat and froze in anticipation in his chest.

He looked at the motionless silhouette again and from his lips escaped a single word; a name, a hopeful question:

“John?”

 

 

**to be continued...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes, I know: this is a cruel cliffhanger! I apologize. 
> 
> Thanks to the people who are still reading this story and bear with me and my slow updating. 
> 
> Here is the song that gives its name to the chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Sdaye4tdOI
> 
> I hope you had fun and if you did, please take 30 seconds to tell me. :)


	10. As Far as What the Eyes See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned: the tag "Severe war injuries" is especially relevant for that chapter. 
> 
> No amount of thanks is enough to express my gratitude to Katyushha for her help and Dragon4488 for the lovely drawings she provides me with.

As Anders got closer to the prisoner, he saw the green and blue tartan pattern of his kilt and he could finally discern his physical features better. He had to acknowledge, with his heart hammering painfully inside his ribcage, that this could well be John Mitchell.

Kneeling in front of the prisoner, he cupped the dark-haired man’s face and lifted his head gently to take a look.

Anders couldn’t help a quiet gasp. If his heart breaking could have made a sound, it would have made a loud crack at that instant.

The young captive had his eyes closed and he didn’t react to the touch. It was John without a doubt, even if half his face had been quite injured. A large bruising covered his jawline, his right cheek and also his temple. He had a shiner and his lip was split. Some of the bruises were fresh. Others had started to heal already and were of a nasty yellowish-green color. John had been hit, probably with fists, and repeatedly. The cut at his right temple had left a trail of dried blood on his scruffy cheek.

Anders had a hard time recognizing what the Nomads had made of his spouse and a part of him didn’t want to believe that the scrawny creature was indeed the man he had married.  The young lord Mitchell, who was known as one of the most attractive men in the whole North Hills, the proud descendant of the Douglas line, renowned for their beauty… there was not much left of him in the tumefied-faced man Anders had in front of him. John had always been lean, but now his musculature had melted and his clothes seemed too large for his fragile frame.

Anders shuddered at how hot and feverish John’s moist skin was under his hands. It left the blond man speechless with anger and consternation.

John opened his eyes slightly, but they were glazed and unfocused. After long seconds, his mind finally seemed to recognize the face in front of him. His dried, pale lips parted and he mouthed two mute syllables _“An-ders.”_

Anders wanted to pet his spouse’s face, bring some reassurance through a touch, but he was too afraid to hurt him even more. “Shit, John… What did they do to you?”

This time, a broken, croaky word managed to get past John’s lips. “An…ders….”

“Yes, it’s me, maiseach,” the blond man confirmed, running the pad of his thumb over John’s cheek. The warrior winced and his lip started to bleed again. Anders breathed an apology.

“Why did they do that?” the consort asked, confused and distressed. “Why torture you?”

John gulped. Speaking was obviously difficult. He tried to wet his split lips, but it was like he had no saliva anymore. Anders would have liked to give him something to drink if only he had anything.

“They wanted… something…” John explained in a barely audible voice. Anders had to lean forward to hear him properly, “something I didn’t want to give them…”

“What?” Anders asked him in a low tone, as if he was afraid of hurting his husband’s ears if he spoke normally.

“Something I could not give...”

“What!? What was it?” the consort pressed him, but somewhere, in the corner of his mind, Anders already knew the answer.  

“You.”

It didn’t come as much as a surprise as it probably should have. “Why me?” Anders still wanted to know.

“I’m tired, Anders…” John breathed as he closed his eyes. Keeping them opened seemed to ask too much strength from him.  He let his head go against Anders’ hand.

“You are not tired, you are dying, for fuck’s sake!” Anders cussed when he realized how weak his husband was.  “Let me untie you and help you lie down,” he urged.  

“No!” John groaned, louder than Anders expected.

“You don’t want me to untie you?”

“No… I… I’m fine like this…. ”

“Yes, you are fine like this, and I’m the springtime queen,” the blond man objected, moving to reach John’s hands behind his back.   

The ropes had been loosely tied around the warrior’s wrists, as if the Nomads knew the Brastàler was too weak to escape and that he couldn’t go far anyway. As Anders gently untied the knots, he saw the bandage around John’s right hand. It was dirty and soiled with blood. The bandaged hand had a weird shape: like it had shrunk.

When his wrists were finally free, John let himself fall to the ground on his side, his body limp like a puppet at the end of the show. The warrior still kept his right hand hidden behind his back, trying to keep it as far from Anders as possible as his left hand was closed into a tight fist.

“Let me check your hand,” Anders offered with a hint of reluctance in his voice. Blood had never been his favorite thing in the world. He hated it, but John had a fever and he suspected that the untreated wound was maybe the cause of it. He took John’s tattooed wrist and brought the hand closer. The dark-haired man tried to resist with a groan but he was too weak to put up a real fight. The fact John didn’t want him to see the wound made Anders expect the worst.

The Aklànder unrolled the bandage, ungluing the layers of fabric from the half coagulated blood soaking it. The task made him nauseous. He gagged, but his stomach was empty and he had nothing to throw up. He still didn’t know by what miracle he managed to not vomit when he could finally see John’s hand in the light… or rather what was left of it. There was only the thumb left. The other fingers were gone; chopped off. Only remained four short, bloody and swollen stumps.

John coughed and turned his head slightly. “I tried to warn you. You didn’t have to see that… it’s not pretty.”

“I have to see it if I want to take care of you,” Anders said firmly, part to convince himself, part to avoid fainting on the spot. In fact, he had no idea how to tend to such a nasty injury. After the initial consternation, a surge of anger filled his chest. Those bastards had dared mutilate his husband. “I swear that if they come to take you and torture you again, they’ll have to kill me first,” he hissed.  

“They won’t,” John shivered and he shook his head. ”It would be useless. They have… what they want now.”

Instantly, the anger turned sour and tasted like guilt on Anders’ dry tongue. John had endured torture so the Nomads would not capture him, and Anders had thrown himself directly into the wolf’s mouth like an idiot. In other words, his husband had lost four of his fingers for nothing. John didn’t seem angry, he was probably too weak to entertain such physically demanding emotion. It was too late now anyway. They were both prisoners. All Anders could do now was try to make it better for his spouse… or at least bearable.

Anders brushed a few, greasy strands of hair away from his husband’s worn up face. He could not give in to panic. His mind was racing as fast as his heart, trying to make a coherent list of what John needed: a clean bandage and something to wash the wound, some medication for the fever, a drink (preferably hot), warm blankets…. but he didn’t have any of these. He took the part of his kilt that was around his shoulder and pulled it out from under his belt to covered John’s upper body with it as much as he could.  It was lame: it wasn’t enough, and it made Anders want to cry.

When Anders was still a teenager, there was this boy in Aklànd castle, the son of some servant. He hurt his arm when he fell off a ladder on the courtyard. Mike had brought him inside and the healers had managed to stop the bleeding, but two days later, the boy was delirious with fever. He died not long after. Anders had seen men taking his body out of the castle on a barrow.

He couldn’t help thinking that he had arrived too late and that’s what was about to happen: he was going to see John weaken and lose his mind - hear him raving until his husband would go stiff and stop breathing.  Never had Anders felt so helpless. He put his hand gently on his spouse’s neck to feel his quick pulse. The warrior’s body was desperately trying to fend death off. But whatever happened now, Anders would not leave John’s side: he would not let him die alone.

At the touch, John moved and took a deep breath. “What I left you in heritage is a world that is not worth living in,” he quavered. “You shouldn’t have come, Anders.”

“Well, now I’m here, so deal with it,” Anders snapped. Besides, the state of the world was not his number one priority right now.

John fell quiet and closed his eyes again. Anders was afraid he would never open them again. He could not let his lover stay in that semi-conscious state and wait for it to get worse. Because Anders seating there and crying on his fate like a kid was not going to do any good.  

The blond man could hear voices and see tall shadows moving around the tent. There were several nomad warriors guarding their leather prison. He would never be able to escape with John being so sick. The Aklànder would not be able to carry him on his back for more than a dozen meters. Besides, they were in a village. He was more likely to find medicine and drugs here than in the wild. Where was Master Sileas when Anders needed him the most? The old man would have surely known what to do to help John.

John shivered when his husband removed his kilt from around him, but Anders had no choice if he wanted to get help. The blond man moved on his all four toward the door. He hit the thick fabric of the tent with the flat of his hand and hailed whomever was outside with a loud, demanding tone.

At first he was ignored, but he kept on insisting until a bearded head peeked into the tent from the opening and shouted something at Anders. The nomad warrior pushed him back violently and the Aklànder fell on his back. But Anders was not done with him, and even if the guard had disappeared back to the other side of the tent’s door, the blond man did the same thing again- trying to catch the nomad men’s attention.  “ _Need fire!!! NEED FIRE!! AND WATER!!”_ he shouted in Gaelic, tapping against the wall of the tent, making the whole structure shake. He was harshly pushed back once more, but he didn’t abandon until a hand grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out of the tent. The nomad man was bald and had a large piercing made of wood and leather through his double chin. Half his forehead was tattooed with red intricate symbols. The nomad man shook Anders like the consort was a vulgar doll and shouted words that were probably not endearments. But Anders just repeated his demand again.

It was the first time Anders saw a Nomad and he felt a strange disappointment. His enemy did not throw lightning bolts from his eyes, have sharp teeth or sweat blood. Anders got how they could look scary, but he had heard horror stories about them throughout his childhood, and it turned out they were just men – just flesh and bones.

Three more nomad warriors joined the one who had Anders in his grip.

“ _Fire! Need fire!”_ Anders insisted again in Gaelic, gesturing to mime burning flames. “And bandages,” he added in his own tongue, pretending to wrap an invisible piece of fabric around his arm.

The men looked at each other and spoke among themselves. They finally seemed to agree on a course of action to take, even if Anders couldn’t tell exactly what it was. He hoped it wouldn’t end up with him losing a couple fingers.

The one who had pulled Anders out of the tent grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the encampment, followed by his companions. Anders noticed with a gulp the sharp-looking battle axes hanging on their belts.

Despite his fear, Anders looked around him, at this world he didn’t know, with a certain curiosity. All men were bald - their heads shaven. They sported face ornaments and tattoos on their faces and heads, maybe as a mark of different status.

Anders found the nomad women pleasing to the eye: most of them petite and curvy in all the right places. They wore their hair gathered in plaits and braids while Anders was used to seeing this look on men. As his guards pushed Anders between the tents, a group of nomad women stopped their tanning work to look at him, intrigued, with their big brown eyes emphasized with earth-colored khôl.  

The men and women in the village wore breeches, some made of leather, but a good number of them made from tartan wool, probably taken from the fabric of kilts stolen in raids.  Anders couldn’t help to find this piece of clothing ridiculous on adults. In the North Hills, pants were only worn by little boys, considered too young to wear a kilt. He wondered how come the nomad men weren’t worried for their fertility with those garments constricting their crotch and strangling the lads all day long.  Also, Anders was small for a man in the North Hills, he realized that among the Nomads, he was of an average height. Though, the males he saw in the encampment were definitely stockier than he was.

He looked around to see if there were any of the blond and blue-eyed invaders Mike had spoken about  in the encampment, but all the gazes that turned toward him were dark-colored.

The nomad guards brought Anders past an enclosure containing a good number of sheep, horses and cows. They had reached  the edge of the encampment and Anders stayed stunned for a few seconds.This was the first time the consort was confronted with the strange landscape of the Plains. Looking at this empty immensity made Anders feel dizzy. There were no mountains, no hills, no peaks, no cliffs or rivers…nothing; only sparse rocks and grass that bent in the high wind like the wave of the sea, as far as what the eyes could see.

They walked around the camp to a large construction made of wood pillars and leather. It could be a temple, or some place of ritual or political importance. Anders froze and the nomad men had to hustle him forward when he noticed the human heads and skulls nailed to beams on the front of the construction. The Aklànder surely didn’t want to become a piece of that morbid decoration.

He expected to find a kind of torture chamber inside the large tent, but instead, there was a group of men and women with children, waiting in line. At the front of the queue, a woman, crunched down, was busy fixing a poultice to a little boy’s arm. One of the nomad guards hailed her. She stood up and turned around.

The woman had silky, dark brown hair that fell freely on her shoulders. Anders’ attention was immediately drawn to something she held in her hand: a large wooden stick. It reminded him of the clubs the hunter used on baby seals. She also looked like the kind of woman who could castrate a man just by glaring at him. Her gray eyes were icy as she stared at Anders and he pondered that she was the first person he had ever seen who could express disdain and indifference in the same look. The consort chose to stay still and quiet.  

She didn’t look like the nomad women, he realized. She was too tall to be one of them. She wasn’t dressed like the women Anders had seen in the encampment either. Instead, she wore a long, grey woolen dress with a red apron over it and a silver necklace.

Despite the fact she wasn’t blond, he still wondered if she was one of the invaders from over-sea. The rumors in Brastàl said they were sent by the ancient gods to take revenge on the North Hillers. There might be some truth behind those speculations, because if Anders had to imagine a vengeful goddess, she would picture her just like this young woman.

The men pushed Anders toward her. The woman eyed the consort, scanning him from head to toes and when her silent check was done, she frowned, unsure. _“Hvað ertu að gera hér?”_ she asked him.

He didn’t understand a word, and that language didn’t seem to be any form of Gaelic. He just raised his eyebrows and shook his head. Then, the woman exchanged a few sentences in nomad Gaelic with the guards. She looked at Anders again and this time, she addressed him in the North Hills tongue: “They want to know why you are so annoying.”

For a second, Anders stayed stunned and completely forgot what he had to say. But the confusion didn’t go for long. “You speak my tongue, that’s good. Can you tell those shitheads that my companion needs fire to warm up, he needs water and food, and above all, he needs healing for his hand they butchered,” he asked her.

To Anders’ surprise, she laughed. “You know that those ‘shitheads’, as you call them, could crack your skull in a second? You are quite bold for a war captive. Why should we give you what you want?”

“You and your friends have been torturing John to get to me. You need me apparently, so I’m sure you are going to give me what I want.”

She frowned as she studied him for a while. “Oh… it’s you, then. I imagined you’d be taller.”  

Anders didn’t have time to waste on cryptic comments as the spirit of death had already opened its bag, ready to put John’s soul inside it. “So? The fire? The bandages? The food?” he urged. “Do I need to write it down so you’ll remember everything? I need those things for yesterday!”

She sighed. “I get now why they complain about you being so annoying.”

There was a quick exchange between the young woman and the nomad men. Anders understood a few words, but not enough to know if she even transmitted his request. Then, the guards proceeded to pull him away to the exit as the other nomad people looked with clueless expressions.

“Hey!!! You were supposed to tell them what I want!” he protested, shouting at the tall woman.

He saw her rolling her eyes and heard her grumble: “annoying _and_ whiny…,” before he was too far to hear anything else.

***

Once back into the tent turned prison, the first thing Anders did, with knots in his guts, was to check on John.

Anders ran the back of his hand on his husband’s cheek. The lord was sweaty and shivering at the same time and seemed barely conscious. At least he was still breathing. That was a very thin thread of hope Anders was even afraid to hold on to for fear it would break.

If only he had his travel bag with him. He remembered having brought the remaining marigold tincture Master Sileas prescribed him. But of course, the men who had captured him near Archerwall had taken everything from him.

“Hold on, John,” he whispered, not even sure his husband could hear him anymore.

“Let’s be clear: I hate touching sick people, especially when they stink like this one,” a voice behind Anders said, making the consort jump. It was the tall woman from earlier, now standing in the door of the tent.  “I’ll have you transferred to a cleaner tent. You’ll get a water bucket to wash him up, and then, maybe I’ll think of doing something for him,” she told Anders

“Thank you,” he sighed with relief.  

“Don’t thank me. I hate needy people even more,” she snapped before turning back and leaving right away.   

Two guards came to load John on a barrow like one would load a bag of coal on a cart. The lord let out a few pained moans, but didn’t react more than that. Anders supervised the whole transfer with a worried frown, trying to chase the images of the corpse of the Aklànd boy from his mind. The guards didn’t manhandle Anders like they had done earlier. They seemed to know that he would not try to get away and would follow wherever they’d bring John.  

The new dwelling was much nicer and spacious. It didn’t stink and there was a layer of clean, dried grass on the ground. There was also a narrow, wooden bed frame, a hay mattress and a few sheepskins and fur pelts as covers. The tent was cozy in a very minimal and rustic way.

A small, oval, clawfoot stove with a pipe conveying the smoke outside by a hole in the fabric wall was there to heat the place, but it was cold to the touch when Anders checked.

The guards put John on the bed and left the couple alone once more. Anders could still hear the men’s voices outside and he knew this new shelter would be as heavily guarded as the last one.

The consort hastened to tuck his husband under the covers while John, with his eyes still shut and his face’s muscles stif, kept his injured hand close to his chest.

Later, an old woman came to light a fire in the stove and a young girl brought a bucket of hot water and a piece of rough, knitted wool. Anders figured out it was a cloth to wash his husband up. The girl threw something in the consort’s arms that he recognized as his leather bag. They wouldn’t give him back his weapons or his money, but luckily, he had now some clothes to get John changed. Most of the clothes he had brought with him were torn up, dirty or wet, but the fancy clothes and the Mitchells clan kilt Anders wore when he had left the castle had not been worn since then.  

John didn’t appreciate the process of being undressed at all, even if Anders made everything possible not to hurt him or expose him to the cold for too long. As he gently manipulated a body rigid with pain, he noticed that John’s left hand, the one that was not severed, was still closed in a tight fist, like his husband kept something. John was holding on to whatever was there like his life depended on it. Anders had to force the hand opened, pulling one finger at a time. There, on the middle of the brunet’s palm was a curl of blond hair, kept together by a leather lace: Anders’ hair. As if the lump in his throat was not big enough already, now it threatened to choke him as the consort took the strand of his hair from his spouse’s hand and put it carefully away in a pocket of his leather bag, in case John asked for it later.

 

As he proceeded to the washing, Anders made an effort to ignore the stench and tried his best not to think about the conditions in what his spouse must have been kept for him to be in that awful state.

The younger man let out long moans of protest between gritted teeth, his remaining fingers clenching weakly in the sheepskins. He attempted to push Anders’ hands and the cloth away from his feverish skin. “Shhhh. I’m nearly done,” the consort tried to soothe him even if it was not quite true.

He took this opportunity to inspect his husband’s body in search of more injuries. Apart from bruising around his wrists and ankles and a few superficial scratches on the small of his back, he didn’t seem to suffer from anything else.

This was like taking care of a very young child and Anders, who had had a baby brother, still felt completely lost once again. When John muttered a few incoherent words and that he recognized his name among them, Anders swallowed down tears. He wrapped the kilt the best he could around John’s long legs and he pulled a frilled shirt over the curly head. Anders’ green coat was a bit too small for John and the sleeves too short, but it would have to do for now.

He took John’s dirty, old clothes and tossed them into the fire without ceremony. Then, Anders searched in his bag and he took the little bottle of tincture out of it.   

He came back to kneel beside the bed and touched the unharmed side of John’s forehead with the back of his hand. The skin was still burning hot. “Don’t leave me now, Mitchell. I want to try something. Don't leave before I try everything to save you,” he told the Great Lord as he opened the bottle.

The sound of the fabric being pushed aside made him turn his head toward the entrance.

“What is that?” the healer woman asked Anders, pointing at the bottle in his hand.

“Marigold tincture.”

“Hm. Good thinking,” she conceded. “But it won’t be enough. Move now, I need space,” she ordered.  The woman put her wooden stick on the ground and kneeled at the side of the low bed to examine John. She touched his neck, looked into his mouth, listened to his breathing with an ear on his chest and checked his mutilated hand as Anders was monitoring her every move. After she was done with all the manipulations, she finally spoke up: “He is bad.”

“Oh really? I didn’t notice,” Anders grunted. “Can you do something?”

“I will try. We definitely need a treatment more drastic than marigold tincture,” she replied, her eyes focused on John’s face. “I have to go fetch a few things. Don’t cover him too much or he is going to get overheated.”  

The healer woman left the tent again and Anders did as asked; he pushed the covers off his spouse’s body.

John’s shivers intensified. “I’m… co-cold,” he stammered, his teeth clattering. He wasn’t sure what to say to reassure John so he reached out and squeezed his bicep gently. He just wanted his lover to know he was there. The shivers continued, but the young man seemed somewhat appeased by the touch so Anders kept on stroking his left arm.

The tall woman was back about half an hour later carrying another steamy bucket of water and a basket. Anders thought the water smelled weird when she put it down beside him. Then, he recognized the smell. “Whisky?” he asked, puzzled.

“Yes. Boiled water mixed with whisky from Archerwall’s supplies. You should be grateful. I’m wasting a whole bottle on your man.”  

“Technically, this whisky is ours,” Anders objected.  

The healer ignored him. “You better hold him down,” she advised, making a chin gesture toward John’s upper body.

“Why?”

“Because that,” she said, and without further warning, she took John’s arm and plunged his right hand into the bucket.  The lord roared like a bear caught in a trap and his back arched off the bed.   

He started contorting but Anders put his hands on his husband’s shoulders to keep him still. John panted heavily with his eyes wide open and mad with pain.

“You are supposed to help him, not torture him even more!” the blond man protested.

“Do you want him to live or not?” she asked him, maintaining the struggling man’s hand into the water and whisky mixture. “Quit whining or I’m gone,” she warned Anders.  

“I wouldn’t be whining if you monsters hadn’t chopped his hand off in the first place,” he yelled, to cover the sound of John’s forceful groans.  

“Of course we are monsters: and so are your clan chieftains who had been slaughtering nomad families for hundreds of years now!”

“Stop burning and pillaging our villages and we are going to stop slaughtering you!”

“I think I’m done here, then,” she decided, letting go of John’s hand and grabbing her stick.  

“NO! Please stay! I’m sorry I said that,” Anders hastened to apologize, grabbing the edge of her dress to keep her from leaving. As much as it displeased him: she was his only hope. “I just hate to see him like that,” he explained to justify himself. “Are you sure this has to be that painful for him?”

“Yes,” she only replied, but she seemed to have forgotten about leaving as she put John’s hand back into the bucket. The warrior squirmed and grunted, but with less vigor this time. Anders couldn’t tell if it was a good or a bad sign.   

“At first I wasn’t sure who you were,” she said, “but you are the young man from the portrait.” She did not make it sound like a question.

“What portrait? “ The blond man feigned not to know what she was speaking about.

“The one he had in his pocket,” she replied, taking John’s hand out of the bucket and inspecting his wound.  

“Maybe…” Anders answered vaguely. Being honest on this matter could be dangerous for him.

“It can only be you,” she stated. “He was ready to lose all his fingers not to give the locket away.”

 _“Oh John, you bloody idiot,”_ Anders thought, looking back at his husband’s constricted and sweaty face. He immediately regretted his choice of word, because “bloody” was exactly what John was right now. He still suspected that it wasn’t really for the portrait itself that his spouse had been ready to be tortured, but not to give their enemies an efficient way to identify and capture him. Now that the Nomads had caught Anders, John had endured all that pain for nothing, and he could still die from his injuries.

 

In a spontaneous gesture, Anders placed his hand on his spouse forehead, carefully smoothing it. He didn’t think he deserved that kind of unconditional sacrifice from anybody, and he wasn’t sure he could give it back either. He was still grateful: in a very painful, guilty way.

The healer poured a clear, steamy liquid from a jug into a little cup and she pressed it in Anders’ hand. “This is an infusion of bog-willow bark for the fever,” she explained. “You are going to make him drink that twice an hour- a little at a time so he doesn’t throw it up.”

Anders nodded, but he still sniffed the infusion and tasted it himself beforehand. If this woman wanted to poison the Great Lord, Anders would be the one dying at his place. But the blond had already drunk bog-willow infusions before and what was in that cup tasted the exact, same green, bitter taste. He deemed it safe for his husband to drink it as well. He slipped a hand under John’s neck and supported his heavy head as he gently prompted him to part his lips with the edge of the cup. The warrior choked on the first gulp, but Anders tried again, whispering encouragements. This time, John was able to drink without coughing.

Once John had managed to swallow three gulps, the healer produced from her basket what Anders recognized as a molded, fungus-covered loaf of bread.

“Rotten bread?” he frowned, wary.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me on this.”

In a mortar, she mashed the bread into a paste with a bit of the infusion. Then, she put the bread paste on John’s wounded hand and wrapped it in a clean, linen bandage. Then, she gave some of the disgusting paste to Anders in a terracotta bowl. “Make him eat a bit of it later.

“Don’t you think fresh bread would be better?”

“No,” she retorted dryly. She seemed to be determined to spare her saliva when it came to explanations. She stood up and gave Anders a pot from her basket. “Here is some honey to sweeten the bread. It will mask the taste,” she suggested. “Let him rest. I’ll be back in about two hours.”

“Hey, wait!’ he hailed her as she was about to leave the tent. “I don’t even know your name.”

“You don’t need to.”

“How am I going to call for you if you are not back in two hours then?”

“I will be back.”

“But what if John gets worse?” Anders insisted.

She rolled her eyes and sighed.  “The tribe people call me _‘Mhuicha’_ , but my real name is Michele,“ she informed him. And one second later, she had already disappeared the other side of the tent’s door.

“Michele… that doesn’t suit her at all,” Anders said out loud, turning to look at his husband. “I should rename her _Ice-Face_. What do you think?” he asked John, brushing off a wet curl plastered on the brunet’s cheek.  The young man did not reply, move, or open his eyes.

 

***

The outside world was noisy: the wind blowing, sheep’ bleating, horses whining, children screaming, people speaking and shouting in nomad Gaelic, sounds of tools and weapons. But the silence inside the tent made Anders utterly uneasy, so he spent the next two hours speaking to his lover in a quiet voice about any subject that crossed his mind. He didn’t speak of Duncan or the war: instead, he spoke about Brastàl and anecdotes that happened while John was away. He told John about the snow fort the children of the castle’s servants had built during the snowstorm and how, one afternoon, Anders went outside in the courtyard to find the children engaged in a snowball fight with Carl and a few of the castle guards. He couldn’t help a smile when he narrated how the guards had hastened to run back to their posts when they had seen him. Anders knew his husband would have found it quite funny.

When Michele came back, John had not gotten worse, but he had not gotten better either. He was the same – pale, shivering, weak.  Without a word, Michele undid John’s bandage, removed the bread paste and cleaned his hand in the bucket of whisky once more. John only gasped, eyes still closed.

As she was busy with John’s hand, the blond man took this opportunity to detail the healer. She was a beautiful woman, and a fierce one. She reminded him of a weasel – gracious but deadly.  In his old days, he would have probably been ready to work to get her favors. But he wasn’t interested in that kind of challenge anymore, and besides, she looked like she would break his arm if he tried to touch her.

Anders watched her work and he couldn’t help but be intrigued. “Who are you?” he asked, out of the blue.  

“Does it matter?”

“Well, you are a healer, but you hate sick people. You look like anybody I could meet in a street of Brastàl, but you speak the Nomad’s language like it’s your mother tongue, and still, you don’t dress like them.”

Michele was obviously not one to enjoy conversation when it was not on her terms.  “Do you ever shut your mouth?”

“Being silent and do as I’m told never was not my strongest suit,” he warned her.  “So? Where are you from?”

She remained quiet for a moment, tending to John’s injury. Anders kept on staring at her. “I was born in Carraig,” she finally admitted after a long moment of silence.  

“So I was right!” he rejoiced. “You are a North Hiller!”

“Yes. My mother was the organizer of Lord Ferguson’s feasts and my father was one of the Lord’s advisors. It gave us a pretty good situation in the clan’s court, so I’m not some peasant,” she specified, as if it was important that Anders knew.

“Never thought so,” he reassured her. But his curiosity wasn’t satisfied yet. “However, that doesn’t explain how you ended up in a nomad tribe,” he pointed out.

“By Wotan!’ she cursed, “you are not going to leave me at peace until I tell you my whole life story, are you?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, wondering who Wotan could be.   

“I was raised in Lord Ferguson’s court until my father started doing fishy business with people the Lord didn’t like much. We were disgraced and chased from the court. My father died not long after that. We moved to a village on the south border, near the marshes. My mother and I never really got along and our sudden poverty didn’t help our relationship. One night, when I was thirteen, there was a raid in our village – the Nomads burned and stole everything they could find. They took me as a captive and brought me back to their encampment in the plains.”

“They took you as a slave,” Anders concluded, giving her a clean bandage from her basket when she outstretched a hand in his direction.  

“No,” she protested. “They adopted me. The Nomads are not as awful as your preceptor surely taught you. One woman from the tribe had lost her teenage daughter from winter sickness and she took me in her tent as a replacement. I lived among the Nomads until I was eighteen. Then came the Norse people-”

“The Norse?” Anders interrupted her. This was getting very interesting.  

“Unless you lived under a rock for the past moons, you must know who I am speaking about. They came on boats this winter and helped the Nomads defeat the Great Lord at the siege of Archerwall,” she explained, shooting a look at John’s face.  

“No offense, but you seem older than eighteen, so it means that those Norse people already came here before,” Anders reflected.

“Of course. They are doing trade with the Nomads for decades now. They come every summer and harbour in a secret location. The nomad tribes gather there to exchange goods with them. They mainly buy things that the Nomads stole during raids. The Norsemen are quite fond of your whisky and also of your silver and gold artwork. These metals don’t exist on their island.”

It explained why the raids had gained in frequency and intensity in the last decades. The tribes had now a market to exchange their booty.  “So, what happened to you when you were eighteen and the Norse people came?” the blond man inquired.  

“They found my multi-languages abilities interesting and they brought me to their island so I could learn theirs as well. They knew that an interpreter could be useful in the war to come. And it’s the last question I’m going to answer on that matter…”

“…today?,” Anders completed with a hopeful note in his tone.  

“Ever!” she objected.

“Fine!”

He chose not to insist…. for now at least. But he was determined to learn anything about what was going on with this war: in case it helped him find a way to escape with John, maybe even save Brastàl and the North Hills. He also had to know what his role in that game was – the reason why the Nomads and those Norsemen had been ready to torture John to get to him.

Michele finished to fix the bandage on John’s hand and placed his arm across his stomach. She took her wood stick and Anders thought she would leave him, but to his stupefaction, she gripped the stick with one hand, and place the other over his husband’s heart. Michele closed her eyes and she started psalming incantations in that same foreign language she had addressed to Anders earlier. The blond man reacted immediately. “What are you doing!!!?”

“I’m summoning the gods for their help.”

“What!??No!  Stop it!!” he yelled, pushing Michele away from John and placing himself between her and the warrior.  “Don’t touch my husband, witch!!” he bellowed.  

“Yes, ‘witch’…. that would be the pretty name I’d go by if I went back to the North Hills,” she frowned, displeased. “Don’t you see I’m trying to help him here, you nut-head?!”

“You are going to curse him!!”

“This is a branch taken from the tree of life,” Michele retorted, waving her stick, but Anders took a step back as if it was infected with some deadly plague. “If you want life to flow in your husband’s body again, you must let me do it!”

Anders narrowed his eyes. He had learnt from a young age how dangerous and treacherous the gods’ magic was. “I do not trust you,” he hissed.  

“Neither I you,””she answered, tit for tat.  

“It’s a good thing we are like-minded on that matter, then.”

They held each other’s glare for what seemed to be an eternity.  

“Damned Gods!” Anders aptly cursed as he surrendered. He stepped aside to let her come back near John’s bed. He never knew he would put what he had of most precious in the hands of a real sorcerer. “Do your witchy thing, witch, if this is the only way to save his life.”

Anders’ gritted his teeth in reluctance as he watched her place her hand again on his lover’s chest and repeat her gibberish incantation.  

“That’s it,” she announced a few minutes later. “I did everything I could for him. It’s up to the gods to decide his fate now.” She was about to leave the place, but Anders stopped her.

“Is he going to make it?” he asked. He was deeply worried, but still wanted to know the bare truth.  

“I don’t know,” she answered, shaking her head. “If he survives through the night, I think he will.” And with that she was gone.

***

The day stretched into the evening with an unbearable slowness. The sun set and by then, there had been no noticeable amelioration in John’s state. The temperature outside dropped and Anders covered his husband with all the sheepskins and fur pelt he could find in the tent and wrapped himself in his own dirty cloak.

Later, a woman came to rekindle the fire with dried horse feces. In a land with no trees, wood was rare and the Nomads used what they could as combustible. It’s only when the nomad woman put a bowl in Anders’ hands without a word that the blond man realized how hungry he was. After she was gone, he took a look at his meal. There were several slices of something he recognized as sheep liver and dices of a dark red meat. He put one into his mouth. _“Horse,”_ he realized, chewing. He usually avoided that meat, but he had to admit it had been well-roasted and the wild thyme seasoning made it tasty. Above all, it felt good to be able to eat something. He just tried not to think about the fact that it could be Màla that  they slaughtered and cooked. He finished eating the content of his bowl, regretting that John was too weak to swallow anything solid.

He poured another cup of willow infusion little by little between John’s parted lips, but the young man spat half of it on himself and the bed.

In the hours that followed, all John did was uttering some incoherent groans, sounds and syllables every time Anders touched him to check his temperature.  

The Aklànder stayed on his knees by the bed until his legs were sore and stiff. But there was nowhere else he could or wanted to go. He just anxiously watched his spouse’s face, desperate to see any positive changes. At some point, he slipped a hand into the neck of John’s shirt and rested his hand flat on a hairy pectoral. He thought that feeling the brunet’s heartbeat would help him chase a bit of the fear away, but no, it didn’t work – he was still so scared of losing him. His spouse was suspended on the thin line between life and death. He knew Michele’s treatments and incantations could fail. The injury and the fever could be stronger than his lover and win. And if they did, would Anders be at least allowed to give his husband a proper funeral? He doubted it. And he didn’t even want to imagine the piercing, overwhelming pain he would feel if the heart stopped beating under the palm of his hand.  

Anders wanted to see the sun rising already, as if it would be the sign of John’s salvation, but the hours were long and dark in the confinement of the tent. Maybe John didn’t even intend on staying alive. Anders had the awful feeling the man he loved was just waiting for it to be over.

Not able to take it anymore, Anders spoke up, unleashing at his anger and frustration and despair.  “I won’t let you die on me, you bastard!” he hissed. “You are not going to leave me after I came all the way here from Brastàl! You’ll fight this.”

To Anders’ surprise, John moved slightly and his eyelashes fluttered on his cheeks. “I don’t… want to….fight…a-anymore…” the young man let out in a stutter, between laborious intakes of air.  

“I’m not giving you a choice here,” Anders ordered, “George and Annie: they said you’d stay alive for me, and you will. Do you hear me, John Mitchell!?” He gripped John’s coat and shook him.  But John’s eyes were closed again and he was motionless except for the heavy breathing that made his chest rise and fall in turn.

Anders still had much to tell his husband, though.  “Don’t be all “John Mitchell” about it and die because you think you failed to be the honorable man. I know you think that the world would be better off without you, but you are wrong. You have to be the warrior I know you are,” the Aklànder enjoined him. “I’m not meant to be a widower just yet. I’m too young for that. If you’re not fighting death for me, than do it for your country. The North Hills deserve someone better than Robert Duncan. James thought you were that man, and I know he was right. I believe in you as much as he did,” he confessed and he really hoped that John had registered something through the fog of fever.

“If you go, I would have nothing left to remember you. All your letters - I had to burn them, and I destroyed the last one,” Anders confided. “You’re going to have to write new ones. You wouldn’t want me to start writing myself love letters where I say how handsome and perfect I am, do you? That’s why you are the only one to write them. And to do so, you have to stay alive.”

The confession still elicited no reaction on the Brastàler’s part.

Anders’ grip on the warrior’s collar loosened, and instead, he rubbed his husband’s shoulder in a clumsy attempt at giving affection and comfort. “John!?” he called. The word came out as a dry sob.  Anders bent his neck forward and rested his forehead against John’s shoulder. “Don’t go… please, don’t go. Don’t give up,” he begged. “Life will be good again… I’ll make it good again. I’ll find a way. We’ll get out of here. There will be the spring, then the summer. I’ll let you kiss plum juice off my lips without complaining. I know I can be rude sometimes; selfish, insensible and unfaithful, but I still don’t deserve the pain of losing you. Don’t do that to me.” The words had spilled out of his mouth in an uninterrupted flow, like the blood from a deep wound. He put a soft kiss to John’s sweaty temple, then a second on his eyebrow and a third at the corner of his lips. These were the kisses of a lover to a spouse, but also the respectful ones of a vassal to his fallen liege.

 

Anders reached for his bag and pulled something out of it: a red ribbon. He took the lord’s left hand, the unharmed one, and tied the ribbon around his wrist. Then, he brought John’s fingers to his mouth, kissed his knuckles and let his lips linger on the skin for a long time as he stared at John’s unconscious face. Michele had summoned the gods power to heal John, but Anders, who had little belief, had still more faith in the spirits. The spirits had brought them together and they had told Anders that his husband was still alive and that he needed him. Maybe they had not completely abandoned them yet, and never before had Anders prayed as fervently as he did throughout that long night.

  
As he finally let go of the brunet’s hand and rested his head on his own arm on the side of the bed, Anders pondered that he would probably not allow himself to act in such a tender manner if he wasn’t married to the man. It was like their matrimonial bond gave legitimacy to Anders’ demonstration of affection. Nobody would deem him weak for loving his lawful spouse. On the contrary, it gave him a strength he had never known before. He hoped that it would give John strength as well: enough to keep on breathing until dawn.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments on the last chapter. They really are what keeps me going when I have rough patches and writing gets difficult. Thank you for still following the boys' adventure. 
> 
> FYI - Before the middle of the 19th century, people didn't know about bacterias, so they did not really understand the concept of "infection" as we do now. But they had observed that some things could help with infected wounds - there is a type of mold that grows on rye and contains what we know now as penecilin. They also knew that alcohol "cleaned" the water, even if they could not explain why. 
> 
> Also, this is a low-fantasy story: so the Yggdrasil stick doesn't work as it does in TAJ. If it works at all is up to your own interpretation.... or the strength your pagan beliefs. ;)


	11. No Wildflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks and kisses of true love to my super beta Katyushha.   
> There won't be any drawing for that chapter since Dragon4488 is gone on a holiday, but she'll be back for the next chapter :)

Anders’ heart made a panicked leap in his chest when he realized he was waking up. Exhaustion got the better of him and his body had surrendered to slumber. For how long? It was hard to tell, but long enough for the sun to start filtering through the eastern wall of the tent. He felt dizzy as he sat up, heart speeding in a sudden rush of panic when his brain caught up on where he was.

He rushed to the bed. The warrior’s body was still, in the same exact position he was before Anders fell asleep.  “No, no, no,” the Aklànder whispered, in a stream of short syllables and painful denial. He hoped against hope that he had not missed his husband’s passing. He would have hated himself for all eternity and probably even longer if he had not been there for his lover when he drew his last breath.

Anders muffled a whimper when he saw that the former Great Lord was still alive.

John’s breathing was now regular, Anders observed. The warrior had stopped shivering. His skin was still feverish, but definitely less than before. When Anders touched his temple, he flinched slightly and his eyes remained shut. His face was pale but it had lost the ashen color it showed when Anders had found him.

“You seem to be better,” the blond man whispered, more for himself than the other man who he wasn’t sure could hear him.

To his surprise, the corner of John’s lips twitched in what looked like a tiny smile. "I know that voice," he emitted, his voice thin and raspy.   

"Aye, you do," Anders confirmed, tears he didn’t quite expected gathering in his eyes as he felt relief wash over him in a summer-warm wave.

John’s blinked his eyes open. "Is this real? Are you really here?" he asked, searching for the answer somewhere in the watery blue orbs. John was clearly not in a good shape, but his eyes were not as glassy and unfocused. A little spark of life seemed to have lightened up in them again.  

"As real as it seems, maiseach," Anders confirmed.

John’s expression mirrored his husband’s. One single tear rolled down his bruised cheek. "I would be mad at you for having come here if I weren't so happy to see your face," he told Anders. The blond man realized that it was the first time since he had found him that John was in a state of full consciousness. He was not even sure the dark-haired man remembered anything of what happened in the last days.

"How did you get here?" John questioned softly.

Fighting the urge to kiss his husband in relief, Anders explained: "the priestesses gave me a horse, but those nomad bastards took it from me." He did not want to hide the fact he had spent some time at Somerled temple, but he thought judicious not to mention anything linked to himself grinding his hips against Edna’s and pinning the young woman to a bed’s matress by the force of his kisses.

“How is my mother… and Annie?” John inquired. “George and your brothers: did they make it to the castle?”

“Yes, they did. They are safe,” Anders answered, with his throat tightening at the memory of  Lady Ann and Annie, and their choice to stay behind. He had not intended to lie to John, but he couldn’t see what else he could reply in those circumstances. It was useless to make the injured man worry for nothing. His loved ones were together and alive the last time Anders had seen them and he wanted to believe that even with Duncan on the throne, they would take care of each other and avoid being victims to the new Great Lord’s regime.     

“They are safe,” John repeated like a prayer, which only managed to amplify Anders’ guilt. John reached his unharmed hand and touched Anders cheek. “But you are not,” the warrior whispered. “You are not safe here. I wanted to keep you safe.”

“I know it’s what you wanted. You should know by now I’m too damn stubborn to be kept safe. But hush now,” Anders ordered. “You should rest and not trouble yourself with such thoughts.”

John’s hand was still on his face, nails scraping the beard on Anders’ chin. Fingertips trailed along his jawline up to his ear. The brunet touched his husband slow but firm, like he wanted to make sure that Anders was really there. “Where did your beautiful curls go?” John asked, as he ran his finger through the short, blond hair.  

“My hair stayed behind at Somerled’s temple,” Anders informed him.  

“A part of you wanted to stay with the priestesses,” John observed. Anders looked away from the inquisitive gaze. His husband knew him far too well for his own sake.   

“You can put it that way,” Anders answered and gulped. John didn’t look suspicious or angry, just questioning maybe.

The long fingers brushed his scalp and finished their wandering at the back of Anders’ neck. “It will grow back, don’t worry,” the consort reassured him as John was still toying with his hair.

“I don’t mind,” John whispered. “It’s just hair.”  

“Why did they cut yours?,” Anders asked. He immediately regretted his question when he saw John’s saddened expression. He did not intend to make his spouse revisit any traumatizing event.

“They didn’t,” John simply said. “I cut it myself when Archerwall fell under my command. It was the last thing I did before the Nomads took the Great Lord’s sword from me. “

Anders nodded and fell quiet. He did not have to ask the reason behind that gesture. The Brastàler men’s pride was their long, dark hair. They let it grow for years. Humiliated and defeated, John had renounced it.

John touched his chin, tearing Anders from his gloomy reflexions. “I thought I would never see you again,” the brunet confided.  

“I had the same thought a few times,” Anders admitted. “But I couldn’t accept it, so I ran away from any duties to find you and bring you home.”

The teary little smile was back on John’s lips. “If during the first moon following our wedding someone had told me you’d do such thing for me one day, I wouldn’t have believed it. “

“Me neither,” Anders laughed softly, shaking his head. “I’m relieved to see you are doing better.”

They exchanged a look that lingered until Anders leant over the bed, finally closing the space between his lips and John’s, careful not to hurt him. The contrast between their mouths made Anders’ lips feel cool against the brunet’s hot ones. The hand that was on the back of Anders’ neck was suddenly gone. Eyes closed, the younger man was like waiting. He stayed passive and he let Anders kiss him, but he was not quite kissing back. Unsure and a little disappointed, the consort pulled away. There was a new boundary between them that wasn’t there before. Anders figured out it was wise not to question it yet. He only left a light peck between his husband’s eyebrows and tucked him under the sheepskins.   

John closed his eyes again and his breathing evened. Anders stayed by the bed a little longer and  thought his lover had fallen asleep, but then, a hand sneaked from under the covers. The fingers’ closed around Anders’ in a light squeeze.

“I’m so sorry, Anders,” John breathed.  

“What for?”

“Everything…”

The blond man shushed his husband. He didn’t blame John for what had happened since the beginning of the war: he just didn’t see why his husband felt the need to apologize. But it wouldn’t change anything anymore. Being sorry would not give them Brastàl castle or their lands back. It would not set Lady Ann, Annie, George or Mike free. It would not revive Ruaidhri or any other dead soldiers. It would not make John’s fingers grow back. Anders felt guilt more often than people knew, but he was pretty unapologetic – because being sorry never sorted anything. He had learnt it from a young age. Whenever he would do something she didn’t like, his step-mother or his father would punish him, whether he apologized or not.

Anders helped John drink more willow infusion, and then, the brunet was fast asleep.

The consort expected to see Michele reappear during the day. He thought she would want to see if John had survived through the night, but she didn’t come.

By the end of the day, John had gotten better. The fever had considerably lessened and he even managed to sit up in the bed with Anders’ help. The nomad guards brought food, but John refused to eat.  

As his lover’s life didn’t seem to be threatened anymore, Anders allowed himself to lie on the ground by the bed and take some rest. He was not even sure he could tell when was the last time he had a real, proper night of sleep. He had closed his eyes for less than a minute when he heard John calling his name softly: “Anders?”

“Yes?”

“You shouldn’t have wasted your energies on me. Even if I heal, the tribe is still going to sacrifice me to Taranis at the spring-coming.“ There was no fear or even regret in John’s voice. He was just stating a fact.   

“No, they won’t,” Anders replied without opening his eyes.  “I won’t let them.”

John had fallen silent again and even if Anders had no idea how he was going to face a whole village of blood-thirsty nomads if they came to get his spouse, he still fell asleep not long after. His dreams were filled with blood and severed limbs and he wished he did not have to sleep.

***

Once again, he did not wake up in a gentle manner.  The blond man felt his heart jump into his throat. John had grabbed the back of his coat and pulled him closer to the bed with an impressive strength for someone who was dying just the night before.

The first thing Anders’ brain registered was the screams and yells. Then, he saw the orange lights through the fabric of the tent. _“The encampment is on fire,”_ was Anders’ first thought. He could feel the wooden bed frame biting his back and hear John’s heavy breathing next to his ear. Eyes wide and his brain trying to make sense of what was happening around him, the Aklànder watched shadows passing quickly around the tent against the fire light. They were attacked, but by whom? For a second he hoped it was an army from the North Hills- maybe Lord Douglas or his brother Ty. Maybe he and John would be saved. “What is going on? What’s happening?” he still asked his spouse.

“I think they’re celebrating,” John’s voice whispered, his grip on Anders’ coat loosening.

It made more sense at once as Anders noticed the beating of drums in the distance. The yelling was in fact cheering and chants. The light was the one of several bonfires and not burning tents, as Anders had first thought.  “Celebrating what?”

“Surely nothing good for us,” John pointed out darkly.

The front flap of the tent was suddenly pushed aside. Anders recognized Michele even before she spoke up. She was accompanied by two nomad guards.

“It’s time,” she commanded.

Anders moved by instinct to stand between them and the bed where John rested. “You are going to have to kill me first if you want to get him,” he warned them, feeling braver than he was. He mentally slapped himself. That was the most stupid sentence ever said by someone in the whole history of the North Hills. How was he supposed to beat off three people on his own? Even Michele alone would be enough to knock him off. He was nothing but a skinny fox yelping at a whole pack of hound dogs.

“We are not here for him,” she informed Anders.  

“A ghraìd,” John breathed, trying to hold his consort back by the sleeve of his coat.

Anders extracted himself from his husband’s grip.“Don’t worry. I’ll be right back,” Anders told him. He hoped it would be the case.

The blond man left the tent, closely watched and followed by Michele and the two guards who tied his hands behind his back. “I thought we were past this kind of formality, you and me,” he teased Michele.

“We can’t take any chance,” she asserted, ignoring the innuendo on purpose.    

The other Nomads in the encampment were too busy rejoicing to notice the prisoner. Under the winter night sky, the tribe people danced around the bonfires, their naked feet tapping the frozen ground to the aggressive rhythm of the drums. The women had smeared their clothes with a flour-like powder and, as they moved and danced, their bodies were haloed with clouds of white dust.

“What is the joyous occasion?” Anders questioned Michele. He couldn’t ignore the cries of the animals, slaughtered to feed the revelers. Would he end up like one of them?

“The Nomads and the Norsemen joined their efforts once more and they succeeded in taking Fergus, Carraig and Cuilc,” she explained. “Lord Ferguson had been killed and his lands conquered. His consort fled with a small contingent.”

Anders gulped. The invasion of the North Hills had truly begun. Nothing stood in the enemy's way anymore if they wished to go up North and take Brastàl.

They brought Anders to the other end of the encampment. Another bonfire was burning there but there were no songs or dancing around that one. As they approached, Anders immediately noticed a woman standing by the fire. She was wearing a long tunic, resembling Michele’s dress, and a fox-fur cloak. But it wasn’t her clothing that struck Anders, but her hair; long and curly, just as John’s used to be, but also red as the fire or rather the fur she wore around her shoulders. The reddish highlights Anders had in his hair and even more so in his beard had always attracted him funny looks. He wondered how the North Hillers would react to seeing a woman like that one. She turned around, looked in Anders’ direction and he could finally see her eyes - as green as a spring meadow, but as cruel as the coldest winter.  

“Who is she? Is she one of the Norse people?” Anders pressed Michele.

“Yes,” the healer confirmed. “If I translate her name to your language , it means ‘Daisy’, but beware, she is nothing like a gentle wildflower.”

Standing by her side was a brown-haired and tall man with a long, slender face who greeted Michele in the language of the Norse. The presence of that man meant that the invaders weren’t all blond or red-headed, after all.

The Nomad guards made Anders kneel to the ground.

Daisy and her companion detailed Anders for a moment, exchanging comments in a low tone. Then, she took something from around her neck. Anders recognized the locket he had given to John when they had parted. Anders felt his guts fill with a burning rage to see it in her filthy, stranger hands. He glared at her, but said nothing. Daisy opened the locket and crouched down to hold the picture in front of Anders’ eyes. She ordered him something with words he did not understand.

“She wants you to confirm that this is your portrait,” Michele translated in a neutral voice.  

Anders adverted his gaze, but the Norsewoman grabbed his chin and forced him to look again. She repeated her question.

“What do you think?’ he grunted, and Michele translated his rebuff back. Daisy let go of his chin in an irritated gesture, but she seemed to be satisfied with the answer and she stepped back.

Then, it was the tall Norseman’s turn to address him.

“He wants to know the nature of your connection with the warrior-king who carried the locket,” the healer told Anders.  

The consort’s eyes narrowed and he turned his head to look at Michele. “Tell him he can shove his questions deep where the sun doesn’t shine and get back to his damned island: him and all his little friends.”

Michele raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want me to tell them that?”

“I have nothing else to say,” Anders grunted.

“Suit yourself,” the healer woman sighed before she translated the consort’s request. Daisy burst out in laughter, but her companion seemed to find Anders’ resistance less amusing. He walked straight to the Aklànder and kicked him between the legs before Anders could try to protect himself.

He regretted his bravado. The breath caught in his throat. A lightning of sharp pain crossed his entire being as the blond man collapsed on his side. His lower stomach tightened into a hard mass of pain. 

The Norseman pushed Anders with the tip of his boot, making the consort roll onto his back. He spoke to him again.

Anders writhed on the ground with suffocated whimpers, involuntary tears running down his face.

“Ivan says he will do it again if you don’t answer the questions,” Michele indicated. Daisy spoke too and the healer hastened to translate. “They also remember that the warrior-king still has his thumb on his left hand and they suggest they could cut if off and make you watch.”   

Anders shook his head. They could kick him in the nuts all they wanted, but he would not let them touch his husband again. And obviously, if they used it as a pressure point, they already suspected that the ‘warrior-king’, as they called him, was somehow important to the blond man.

“I’m going to talk,” Anders agreed in a shaky voice.

Ivan had a devious smile. He replied something that Michele didn’t translate, but it sounded like a satisfied approval for Anders’ change of conduct. The tall man tapped Anders’ cheek gently with the side of his dirty boot and walked away, closer to the fire.

The throbbing pain between Anders’ legs made him groan as one of the nomad guards pulled him up on his knees again. “John is my husband,” the blond man admitted, drilling his gaze into Ivan’s. If there were to be any consequences to his avowal, he hoped they would fall on him and not on his man who had suffered enough already. Michele hesitated, then she repeated the words in the Norse language.

Daisy laughed again at the consort’s answer and Ivan snickered. Anders wondered if Michele had really repeated the right message because they were now mocking them for a reason he could not grasp.

“There isn’t a word for ‘husband’ when it comes to two men being together,” the healer told the blond man, “so I roughly translated it as ‘wedded male lover’.”  

Still laughing, Daisy asked the consort a new question.

“She asks which one of you is going to carry the baby,” Michele let him know.  

“What even is that question?” Anders frowned. “Whose business is it who is going to carry the baby around? Both John and I can do it.”  

“No,” Michele corrected, “she is asking about who is going to be pregnant.”

“We are both men…,” Anders pointed out. He began to be convinced that those Norse people were nothing short of barking mad.  

“I know!” the healer snapped, losing patience. “It’s meant as a jeer: to ridicule you.”

“Ridicule me….How? Why?”

“The kind of relationship you have is considered shameful in their culture, and same-sex marriages are not allowed… in fact it’s not even a concept on their island.”

 _“Not at all? Even between women?”_ Anders wanted to ask. _“What could one do if, for example, they only have sons but want to include a new male in their clan… or if two men or two women wish to have a family together?”_ But the blond man kept those questions for himself. “They are insane,” he only breathed in disbelief.  

“I guess you don’t want me to translate that,” Michelle hinted.

“No, thanks,” Anders confirmed. “My testicles would be grateful.”

The dark-haired woman only tilted her head to the side and she remained quiet until Daisy took a step foward and asked a new question. According to Michele, the Norsewoman now wanted to know his name.

“Anders Mitchell,” he replied right away, his head bent forward in defeat, but loud enough so he wouldn’t have to repeat.  This was exhausting, pointless and absurd. All he wanted was to be allowed to go back to the tent and take care of his lover.

“Anders…,” Daisy repeated, and as he looked at her, he saw the red-haired woman exchanging a meaningful look with Ivan, one that the consort wasn’t able to decipher. They spoke among themselves and then to Michele.

“Now they want to know about your mother’s name,” the healer sighed. She leant against her stick, obviously tired of playing the homing pigeon.

“Her name was Astreed. Can I go back to my spouse now?”

Ivan and Daisy had got all the information they needed from him, because the guards had already put Anders back on his feet.

“You already knew I was married to John. You’re working for them. Why didn’t you tell them right away that he is my husband?” Anders asked Michele as the Nomad hustled him in the direction of his tent.

“I’m working for no one but myself,” she replied.

The nomad tribe seemed to have made good use of the whisky stolen in Archerwall, because a great majority of them were too drunk for their own good. It would be the perfect opportunity for Anders to escape… but John was too weak to flee with him yet. The consort would have to postpone any breaking plans.

***

Anders was still limping a little from Ivan’s kick when he walked into the tent.

He was surprised to find John seated on the edge of the bed, his face wan and a dark circle around the one of his eyes that didn’t already sport a shiner. Anders could see his husband’s shoulders sag as a part of the tension left him when he recognized his consort.   

“I was worried,” John said, reaching a hand to take Anders’. “You weren’t coming back.”

Some of the fear remained in his expression, even when John could feel his husband’s hand in his. “Did they hurt you?” he asked.

“No,” Anders lied.

“The one named Herrick. He had blond hair just like you. You saw him?”

“No. There was just that tall wanker named Ivan and a crazy woman.”

“Ivan…” John groaned. “He was the one who punched me,” he added, gesturing around the injured side of his face.

Anders concluded that the man named “Herrick” was most likely the responsible for John’s most serious mutilations.

“What did they want from you?” John asked, looking at Anders from underneath his half-mask of swollen flesh and coagulated blood.

“They asked my name… and questions about you and me.”

“And? Did you tell them the truth?”

“They left me no choice. They threatened to cut off your remaining fingers if I didn’t speak. I could tell they weren’t bluffing.”   

Now the pain wasn’t only in the bruised skin of John’s face but in the hazel eyes as well.  “I wonder how I earned such loyalty from you,” he breathed.  

Anders didn’t know if he should feel hurt or not. “Is that a real question?”

John did not reply, only holding his gaze, meaning this was indeed a real questioning. The consort let go of his husband’s hand in order to grab the left sleeve of his own coat.

“I could enumerate several reasons why I would be loyal to you,” he said, “but I guess this one will suffice,” he added, pulling his sleeve up to reveal his wedding tattoo under the low light of the butter lamp.   

John heaved a sigh and Anders knew he would not get to know what the warrior was thinking. “You should take the bed, I can sleep on the ground,” John suggested.

“Nonsense. You are injured – you take the bed. I’m more than fine with the ground.” Before his husband would protest, Anders lay down at the side of the bed, his cloak and a fold of his kilt around his shoulders. Was John doubting him? He had never expected the brunet to welcome him with hugs and flowers, but this new distance between them confused Anders and made him ache in a way no kick to the crotch would ever do.  

***

During the following day, the spouses did not speak much and they did not have many visitors apart from the nomad women bringing them food and drinks. The guards were still on duty and Anders suspected they would not let him leave the tent if he tried or asked. He would not attempt anything for now anyway. He was relieved they even let him stay by John’s side.  

The injured lord ate a few spoonful of the rye bread mixed with honey, but he spent most of the day sleeping and recovering. The fever was almost gone, but he was still weak and his legs were shaky when he tried to stand up, leaning heavily against his husband.  

On the morning after, Anders and John found themselves without a roof over their heads. The Nomad people had begun packing their camp to move to another location.

Everybody was expected to contribute. The children carried small packages on their back. Even Anders, who had his wrists tied up in front of him to a leash fastened to horse’ saddle, still had to carry a backpack that surely contained bricks. The Nomads traveled on foot. The horses, donkeys and cattle were used to carry the tribe’s heaviest belongings. The only people who rode horses were Michele, Ivan, Daisy and another man the Aklànder had never seen before who had brown hair but blue eyes as pale as Anders’.

The tribe took everything from the encampment, only leaving behind smoking fireplaces and some of the tents’ structure. Before they left, Anders saw the Nomads cover the wooden poles and beams in a greasy substance meant to protect them from the weather. Once empty, the village looked like a group of beached whales after the scavengers had cleaned the skeletons.    

From afar, Anders saw the nomad guards put John backwards on a donkey. They seemed to find it hilarious to see their former enemy in that position. The young man barely reacted to the humiliation. He only turned an empty look to the flat horizon line of the plains, and the consort couldn’t help but notice that his husband avoided looking his way. It was heartbreaking for Anders to witness the downfall of someone he thought unbreakable.

The tribe’s convoy started moving. The consort stared at his feet as he walked in the high grass. This was going to be a long day.

 

***

Two hours after the departure, Anders noticed out of the corner of his eyes the hooves of a horse walking by his side .

“Look who’s there: my favorite wicked witch,” he told the rider with an insolent grin, lifting his head to look at her. “I see that you couldn’t help being attracted back in the spider web of my charm.”   

Michele turned her nose up at him. “I have no taste for dwarves in skirts.”  

“I think of myself more as a well-hung warlord,” he deadpanned.  

“Don’t think too highly of yourself, Mitchell,” she snorted.

“Fair enough, but while you are there: there are some things I need to know and you are the only one here who can give me answers,” Anders asserted. He thought Michele would leave with a huff. But like most people, she liked to feel important and Anders had used the right tactic to get her to cooperate. “They asked about my mother, it means they know who she was. So it’s true then; I’m one of them, am I? I’m a Norse. My mother came from their island.”  

“Yes,” she confirmed without showing any special emotion about it.  

“Just one thing,” the consort pleaded, “tell me that in their language “Anders” doesn’t mean “old goat’ or something.”  

She snickered. “No. ‘Anders’ means “manly”. But in your case it wasn’t the best choice since you have no penis to speak of,” the healer scoffed.   

“That was so uncalled for!” he protested. “I didn’t do anything to you!”

“Except being our enemy and extremely annoying,” Michele pointed out.  

But Anders wasn’t listening to her remarks anymore, he was mulling his new findings over. “Manly”: that’s totally me. I like that name,” he pondered out loud.

“It was also your father’s name…”    

Anders snapped his head around to look at her again. The image of Johan Johnson crossed his mind for a second. He was the only father Anders had ever known. Johan had wedded his mother before he was born. Therefore, Anders was a Johnson in every right - the ceremony performed not long after his birth had established it as a fact to the eyes of the law and the spirits’. Johan had not been the best father a boy could wish for. He had been an absent one most of the time and a strict one when he was there, but he had still provided a clan, a name, a family, a roof and a marriage match for Anders. Despite that, nobody in Aklànd had ever forgotten the fact that Lady Astreed had not conceived him with Johan Johnson. She was already pregnant before she met the lord of Aklànd; before her boat broke on apple bay’s cliffs. The common stories was that Lady Astreed had been impregnated by a sea monster, and while Anders had never believed in monsters other than those who dwell in human beings' heads, he had accepted the idea that he would never know who his real father was. And now, thirty two years later, Michele had changed it with a simple sentence. Anders did have a father after all, and he was also named “Anders”. He let the finding sink in as they walked another half-mile. He did not quite know what to make of that knowledge yet or how to feel about the possibility of having, somewhere, relatives he did not know - a family who were not Mikkel, Tyrone or Axl.  “If you know who my father is,” he reflected out loud as he kept on staring down at his tied hands, “then you must know the reason why the Norsemen want me!”  

“They need you because they think you are the only one who can put an end to a series of bad things happening on their island.”

“Hold on, wait a minute,” he exclaimed, stopping in his track, until the horse forced him to move again, “Is it like in one of those old hero tales? You are going to tell me I’m some kind of lost prince and a prophecy says that one day I will return to my homeland, chase the villain who dethroned my father and bring back an era of peace and prosperity.”   

“No,” Michele snapped. “You are the son of a blacksmith and a servant wench, and your sole purpose is to die,” she lashed out. “Like I said: don’t think too highly of yourself.”  

Anders closed his mouth. One element of that revelation made him feel sick – afterall he was right to think of himself as an animal led to the slaughter.  “So that’s what they want, your Norse friends, to kill me?” he inquired.

“They won’t kill you; you are supposed to do that by yourself,” Michele told him and before Anders could ask why on earth would they want him to commit suicide, a nomad woman called the healer’s name. She made her horse turn around and trot away.

The consort was left alone with questions and fears. They were heavier than the actual weight he carried on his back. Each of his heartbeats was chasing the next one in a close pursuit. There were too many pieces missing for the portrait of Anders’ disastrous situation to make any sense to him yet. It was just an abstrait drawing: a dark, red one. 

He had not noticed that as he spoke to Michele, the horse to which he was tied up had caught on the animal carrying the former Great Lord.

When Anders’ eyes met his husband’s, he knew the younger man had heard everything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Daisy (Amy Manson) has brown hair in Being Human, but I chose to describe her as a red-haired woman like the actress is in Desperate Romantic. Also, I turned Ivan into a villain. OOps! I hope you can all forgive me.


	12. The God of Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders and John are still prisoners of the nomad tribe and travelling with them. Some important information about Anders' past is revealed and an enemy shows his face, forcing Anders to take difficult decisions. 
> 
> (This netflix-like summary was sponsored by MacClellan & Sons, merchants of soap since the 9th Great Lord)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the slow update. I'm working hard for the next one to come faster. This is a long chapter, so I hope it will make up for the long wait. 
> 
> The stunning art of this chapter is provided by Dragon4488 and the fact the chapter is readable and not full of mistakes is due to Katyushha's hard work. Give them some love in the comments. :) 
> 
> (the map is by me)

 

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“Above the higher of the highest mountains, was a kingdom named Asgard. There lived the gods and Wotan was their chief. He was the wisest among them for he had sacrificed one of eyes and endured the torture of being hanged on the tree of life to gain the knowledge of magic and sacred runes.  Wotan had three brothers who were also gods and ruled with him over the earth. But they weren’t all as wise as Wotan. Bragi, the god of poetry, was the one to inspire artists and poets, but he was also egoistic and self-centred. Mostly, he used the power of his poetry to manipulate gods, goddesses and mortals alike. He thought of his own profit first and tended to ignore the loyalty he owed to his family.”

“Well, that’s no news,” Anders pointed out, bringing his tied hands to his face to scratch his eyebrow. “We already know gods are selfish pricks. That’s why the North Hillers rejected them a long time ago.”

“Are you going to stop interrupting me?” Michele huffed.

‘Fine, excuse me, do continue,” the blond man encouraged her, “I’m too afraid you’re going to curse me if I don’t behave,” he added with a smirk. He was taunting her, but he was glad her stick was lying in the grass nearby and was not in her hand. Despite his teasing attitude, the fact she was a sorcerer serving the gods still made Anders nervous.

“Bragi didn’t have much regard for the pain or anger his actions could cause,” Michele carried on. “He knew he could always use his silver tongue and cunning plans to slip out of trouble. For example, he got one of his brothers’ lover to work for him as a slave, and every time she would try to leave, he would make her stay with a word-spell. He also seduced and slept with his two other brothers’ wives. The brothers were in rage, but Bragi would always find a way to avoid punishments. When he got tired of his brothers’ wives, Bragi set his eyes on the goddess Idunn: the guardian of the golden apples and the gods’ most valuable treasure. Bragi didn’t want the apples, but he wanted the goddess so he seduced her. He kept her away from her guarding duty as they shared pleasure together. But soon, Bragi got bored with her as well, like he got tired of every other woman who had ever visited his bed. He never loved a partner for long. The rejection made the goddess Idunn spiritless, but she still clung to the god of poetry, trying to keep his love while she neglected the apple tree.

One day, Bragi saw a beautiful, blond woman outside the great gate and he let her in the gods’ home without asking about her name and means. But the woman was a thief, an assassin and, most importantly, a giantess:  one of the Gods’ mortal enemies. She had been sent by her kind to steal the apples and put an end to the gods’ reign by murdering them all. The giantess found Idunn in Bragi’s home. She shot her with a crossbow and killed her. Then, she threatened Bragi with her weapon, but the god of poetry cowardly ran away to seek his brothers’ protection, guiding the giantess directly to them and the sacred tree. Fortunately, the giantess was defeated by the god of fire before she could do more damage. Bragi’s brothers already had several reasons to be angry with him, but now he had also put them all in mortal danger. It was the straw that broke the donkey’s back. They decided that Bragi had to face a trial. But once again, Bragi fled like a whimp.  He found a hiding place among the humans, and he is still there – too afraid of showing his real identity for fear that he would be forced to go back to Asgard and answer for his actions.”

Then, Michele got quiet as she rekindled the fire with the driftwood the nomad children had gathered on the beach of the loch.

“That’s it?” Anders inquired since his interlocutor had stopped talking.

The healer nodded, cracking a branch.

“That’s a wonderful little piece of folklore,” Anders remarked with sarcasm, “but I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”  

“It has everything to do with you.”

He narrowed his eyes, perplexed. “How come?”

“The Norse believe that you are Bragi’s hiding place.”

Anders’ eyes went from half-closed to wide open in a split second. “What?”  

“They think you are the god,” Michele said, then she paused. “Well, not precisely,” she corrected herself. “Your body is the vessel he is using to hide among the mortals. You are the anchor keeping him in this realm. If he doesn’t have this anchor, he will have to go back to Asgard and face his trial.”

“That’s why the Norse people want me to die,” Anders analyzed, “so that the god, who is supposedly living within me can get back to this Asgard place.“  

“Exactly,” she said, switching from a seating to a kneeling position and stretching her back. “They believe that if they make Bragi return to Asgard, the gods are going to put an end to the drought and the violent volcanic eruptions happening on their island. Your death has to be planned in a very specific way. I don’t know the details, but I heard it involves a mountain on the norse island and poison drinking.”    

Anders gulped, his gaze lost into the fire. If the Norse thought he was a renegade god, it meant that the North Hillers had been right to call him a “witcher” all along. In fact, this was even worse than being a sorcerer. That was all so absurd. “But if I am sheltering this god somehow, am I not supposed to have godly powers of some sort?”  

“You convinced me to heal your husband, didn’t you?” she replied, and he couldn’t tell if it was a jest or not.  

“That was not magic,” the consort grunted. “That was only the power of my good looks.”  

He heard her sigh. “It was certainly not one of your humbleness…”  

“That’s insane,” Anders protested, his logic mind racing to find an explanation -  a solution to pull him out of the mess he had been dragged into. “How do they know I’m Bragi’s vessel? It could be any Norseman from their island? Why me?”

“You were designated as such before you were even born.”

“How?” Anders insisted.  

“Because of your mother, in fact,” she sighed. Anders could see having to tell the whole story annoyed her, but he did not give a damn- he had to know; he deserved to know.

“Which means?” he pressed her.

“Your mother, Astreed Wijvendöttir, was a servant of the Jarl, or the lord if you prefer that term. Because of her beauty, she was courted by many men, but she had the misfortune to become the Godi’s love interest.”

“What’s a Godi?” Anders interrupted her once again: all his previous resolutions suddenly forgotten.

“It’s the man who interprets the signs sent by the gods and guides the rulers.”

“And that Godi-guy wanted to bang my mother?”                  

“Yes, as you put it with such delicacy; he indeed wanted to _bang_ her,” Michele confirmed. “And he expected that since he held a high position and she was just a mere servant, she would therefore throw herself into his arms. However, the pretty girl already loved another man: a simple blacksmith named Anders Geirrsön.”

“My father…” Anders realized in a breath, barely a whisper.

Michele carried on as if she had not heard. “The Godi did not appreciate the rejection much. He was gnawed with jealousy and resentment when she married her blacksmith. He made a public declaration, saying that the gods had told him in a dream the first child who would he born from that union would be the vessel of the god Bragi and would have to be sacrificed accordingly when old enough to climb the mountain and drink the poison. The desperate couple tried to flee to another village, but the Godi sent warriors to find them and they brought them back. He wanted to keep them close; see them suffer. When the blacksmith noticed that his wife was showing the firsts signs of pregnancy, he spent the little money he had to buy supplies, a small boat and hire men to drive it. One night, they managed to escape the village and go to the beach. But they had been betrayed by the man who sold them the boat and as they were embarking, they heard the Godi’s mercenaries searching for them along the cliffs. The blacksmith urged his wife to stay in the boat and to the sailors to take off as he would try to mislead the Godi’s warriors. There are still songs today telling the tale of their tragic parting. The mercenaries caught the blacksmith, but they could not stop the boat from leaving the coast. Astreed Wijvendöttir left the island that night, never to come back.”

The blond man had listened with his mouth shut and dry. He had not even noticed the rapid pulsations in his chest and the moist of his palms until Michele stopped to rekindle the fire.

 _“Anders.”_ That was the word Astreed had pronounced when she had held her newborn son in her arms for the first time, and that had also been her last word. Everybody had tought she was naming the baby, but maybe that had never been her intention. In fact it was her husband’s name she said. Was it a way for her to let people know the name of the baby’s father, in case he came to the North Hills and reclaimed him? She probably knew she was going to die, and perhaps she wanted to explain why she would let herself be taken by death without fighting: because she did not want to live without the man who bore this name.

“What about my father? What happened to him?” Anders wanted to know.

“I don’t rightly know,” Michele mused. “The Godi tried to have him be executed, but he was a good blacksmith and the Jarl protected him. He disappeared at some point, about fifteen years ago. Some say he lives alone as a shepherd in the west of the island. Others say that the Godi finally had him assassinated and disposed of his body in the sea. All I can say is that Ivan knew Anders Geirrsön when he was young. When he saw the portrait in the locket the Great Lord carried with him: he was struck by the resemblance between you and your father.”

“That’s how they knew I was alive somewhere and how they caught me. They tortured John to discover where I was,” Anders concluded. “And when they knew I was named ‘Anders’, there was no doubt in their minds anymore.”

Michele nodded.

She cursed when she burned the tip of her forefinger with a firebrand. As she paused in her story to put her finger into her mouth and lessen the sting, Anders took this opportunity to try to imagine another version of himself: twenty or thirty years older- with grayer hair, wrinkles and features tired by years of grief over a wife who had been taken away from him and a child he would never know. That’s what his real father would look like, if he was still even alive.

“As for the prophecy about you being Bragi’s vessel,” Michele went on a few minutes later, “most people back then suspected that it was only a way for the Godi to take revenge on the girl who had rejected him. But as the volcanic eruptions became more frequent and destructive: more and more people started to believe that it was the sign of the Gods demanding justice.”

“ _Why am I always ending up being the scapegoat!?”_ Anders’ inner monologue complained.

Before he could ask for further explanations, Michele had stood up in a haste. Daisy was walking their way and she did not look happy. She barked a few words to Michele and the healer bit back in the same tone.

“I’m not allowed to speak to you alone, apparently,” Michele informed Anders in a groan, and she spat a few more scathing words in Daisy’s direction before leaving the place. She was not one to accept being restrained or contradicted, and Anders suspected she had found her match in Daisy. The Norsewoman walked away as well, not even giving a single look at the Aklànder.

Anders’ eyes followed the healer as she joined another fireplace, farther away on the loch’s beach. During the afternoon, two other nomad tribes had joined the one that had captured the lord and his consort.  They were about four hundred people now, massed on the loch Lileas’ bank. The women busied themselves with cooking the evening’s meal on the many campfires dispersed along the rocky beach. There were not many grown men among the tribes’ people, Anders had noticed; mostly women and children. It was not hard to imagine where the men were – they were busy killing North Hillers and pillaging conquered cities.

The night was full of stars and the moon shone pale and round like the stomach of a pregnant female. On the opposite bank, the consort could see the walls of Carraig Castle and the moving lights of torches the new occupants of the city carried around the guard towers. It was cold, but the wind low and for once, the sky contained its need to piss on everybody.

“Nice weather, huh?” Anders told the nomad warrior who stood behind him like a silent statue for hours now.

“Ergm,” the guard let out, and the blond man couldn’t figure out if it was an actual word or just a grunt of discontent.

“That’s a valuable opinion,” Anders observed.

With the language barrier and the guard’s total disinterest in his prisoner’s reflections, the conversation was going to be minimal, to say the least. Anders could forget it already. Right now, he regretted being separated from his husband. He had looked around briefly to try to locate John when the guard had made Anders sit by the fire and tied his legs together. But he had not been able to see his spouse anywhere. Despite the moonlight, those who weren’t sitting next to one the fires were only anonymous silhouettes in the dark.

Anders could use John’s presence right now. It would reassure him to know that his lover was not feverish again or that his hand was not making him suffer too much. He wanted to wrap John in his cloak with him and share the warmth of his body. It had been so long since they had slept close to one another and Anders never knew he could crave something as simple as rest his arm in the curve of his husband’s waist.

Just as Anders was cursing his loneliness, a young woman kneeled by the fire, a few steps from where he was seated. She unrolled a fur pelt on the ground. She must have felt Anders’ gaze on her because she turned her head, and to the Aklànder’s surprise, she smiled at him. He returned the smile, uncertain and edgy. Anders was already thinking of a way to communicate with her, so maybe he could ask where John was, but she seemed to have forgotten his presence already and she had settled her attention on a young Nomad man who was busy sharpening his axe with a wet stone not far from there. “Arran,” she called softly and he immediately stopped working to look at her. Anders understood that the word must be the young man’s name.

The said Arran grinned when the young woman walked to him, took his hand and made him stand up. He followed her to the fur pelt. When she kissed him and dragged him down with her, Anders realized what he was about to behold. The couples of the Nomad tribe had a different notion about what should be done in private. Anders tried his best not to stare, but they made it difficult.

 _“That’s surely one good way to stay warm,”_ Anders thought with a little embarrassment as the nomad girl unlaced her partner’s pants. The man had already slipped his hands under her shirt to touch her breast. The other members of the tribe didn’t really pay attention to the couple – like this was a normal, daily thing.

From what he had learnt during his youth about the Nomads and their lifestyle, Anders expected their intercourse would be a quick, messy, maybe brutal coupling – like mating animals. However, what he witnessed was the exact contrary. The young nomad warrior took his sweet time with foreplay- lacing his fingers with hers and kissing her hands and her face with reverent care. They smiled at each other and spoke in a low voice. Their caresses, soft yet passionate, were imbued with a true respect for the other’s body. The man whispered things in his partner’s ear that made her giggle and he seemed to be as pleased with her laughter as he was with her moans when he started nipping at her neck and throat. The lass was more than consenting as she abandoned herself to Arran’s touch with delighted sighs. Anders understood that what he was watching was not so much an act of reproduction as it was an act of love, trust and joy. This was the manifestation of two souls celebrating the simple fact of being alive. From that perspective, Anders understood how they could do it under the night sky, not caring about the fact they could be seen. Nothing in it was shameful or had to be hidden.

Anders’ second-hand embarrassment faded and he felt a pinch of sadness. Now he simply envied them.

By instinct, his eyes started wandering around in search of his husband once more.  But once again, the familiar face was hidden from his sight. He had no idea if he and John would still be alive tomorrow. Anders realized now how precious every moment with his spouse had been.

Anders braced his legs with both arms and rested his forehead on his knees, trying to forget the couple making love a few steps away from him. The idea that he might not be able to have that with John ever again was as incomprehensible as it was hurting. He stayed in that position for a long while, even after the couple had gone quiet and were asleep by the fire.

One of the elders of the tribe brought Anders a bowl that contained several slices of mutton jerky. His mouth watered instantly at the sight of the food. He ate with haste and had to fight off a dog that came too close for his liking to sniff his meal. The consort was surprised to find, at the bottom of the bowl, a folded piece of paper.

Anders took a quick look at his guard and saw that the man was busy chatting with the old man who had brought the food.  

The blond man unfolded the piece of paper and, at first, he saw nothing. Then, by dint of contorting himself to look at it with a better light from the fire, he managed to catch sight of letters.  The words had been clumsily traced with a twig and a bit of mud. Anders had a hard time reading it at first. After a little while, he finally got to make sense of the message. It said : “ _Nod if you alright.”_  

This message could only come from one person: someone who, even sick and with a mutilated hand, would still worry about him.  He had no idea how John had managed to write it with his left hand and pass the message on to him.  Anders scanned his surroundings again, in search of the invisible Brastàler. He could not see John, but obviously, his spouse could see him from wherever he was. Anders nodded, hoping John was looking his way at the precise moment.

 

 

***

“I could not see you last night,” Anders told John when they were finally reunited in a canoe that left the loch’s bank at dawn.  

“I was still there,” John replied. His smile was gentle, but sad and tired. He looked worn out and his hollowed cheeks made Anders’ heart tighten. His eyes had now the color of the soil of a dry, sterile garden where nothing had grown for a long time.

The loch’s water being warmer than the ambient air had for a result that the surface was veiled by a ghostly mist. Two men of the tribe drove the boat, but a dozen others followed in similar embarkations.

Anders could see that John was suffering by the way he kept his hand hidden under a fold of his kilt and how he cradled his arm against his chest like a mother with her sick baby. Anders now fully measured the consequences of his spouse’s injury. All things considered, without his good hand, John’s days as a warrior were over. That was most likely the reason why the enemies had chosen that kind of torture: to kill the fighter in him first before killing the man. And indeed, there was something definitely “empty” in the way John looked at the waters of the loch – like he had lost all purpose. Anders had entertained the hope that the clans’ chieftains would reinstall John on the throne if he came back, but he doubted now that they would elect a Great Lord who could not fight anymore. The brunet knew it too; Anders was sure of it.  

 

 

 

If Anders imagined a way for them to escape, the bruises and wounds on John’s face would heal at some point. The black circles around his eyes would disappear and his hair grow back to its full glory, but would his pride ever be restored?

John reached his left hand out and slipped his cold fingers into the neck of Anders’ shirt. The older man wondered what he was doing but he soon understood when the brunet closed his fingers around his necklace:  the spirit of speech’s parted lips.

“Bragi, god of poetry,” John whispered, thoughtful.  “The woman healer, Muicha;  she repeated the whole story for me last night,” he explained when he noticed the blond man’s puzzled look. “Or at least the main facts.”   

“They believe I’m that god,” Anders snorted.

“Don’t you?”

“I think they are all nuts,” the Aklànder grumbled. ”You believe I’m a renegade god as well?”

“No. But I have to say that it’s uncanny… “ John trailed off.

“What is?”

“You are born under the spirit of speech named Braig and those barbarians think you are their god of poetry. Destiny works in strange ways.”

“Destiny is a crock of shit,” Anders declared. “There is no such thing as destiny.”

John tilted his head to the side. “I wonder. ” He stared Anders’ necklace some more before letting it go. “I always thought I was destined to die in an honorable way: a good, glorious death on the battlefield after long years of reign; after insuring that my husband and my family wouldn’t have to worry about their future. Destiny failed me… or maybe you are right and it didn’t even exist in the first place.”

Unsure what to reply, Anders chose to change subject.  “Where are they bringing us?”

“To Carraig, I suppose. I suspect they want you to meet Herrick.”

The change of conversation topic did not bring any relief. Anders chewed on the inside of his cheek.   “That can’t be good, right?”

The answer was laconic. “No. It can’t,” John replied, his eyes fixed on a point above Anders’ shoulder.  

The Nomads maneuvered the canoes for a moment now and even if the Aklànder could not see where they were going, he evaluated that they must be approaching the opposite bank.

He let out a muffled gasp when a monster's’ head emerged from the fog. For one split second, the blond man had had that absurd and childish fear that it was the sea monsters, coming to claim him back and drag him to their cold, dark kingdom; so deep into the ocean that the light of the sun never touched it. The reality was not far from that fleeting fantasy, though, since the hideous head was a wood sculpture at the head of a large boat with red and white sails. As the canoe went further, he could observe five more of the Norse’s sailboats anchored in the loch. He tried to catch a glimpse of the men who worked on the decks without success. It was in these boats that those terrible invaders sailed from their island and across the ocean to carry the invincible weapons that made them victorious over the North Hills forces.

As they left the sailboats behind, Carraig castle appeared: its crumbled outer walls like a broken ribcage. The fallen city was yet another wound – another breach in the violated North Hills.

The canoes reached the loch’s bank and were pulled on the beach. Then, the Nomads led their two prisoners toward the city gates.

Norse warriors guarded the access and one of them, Anders noticed, had hair and eyes even paler than his. The man was younger than Anders but he already had a long and thick, blond beard. The Norseman and the consort stared at each other with curiosity, but for different reasons; Anders because he was astonished to see someone who looked like he did, and the Norseman because Anders was supposed to be the living incarnation of one of his gods. The man was way taller than him and he gave the consort this same impression of foreignness he had felt when confronted with Ivan or Daisy.  They were supposed to be his people. But everything about them seemed strange to him. He did not speak or even understand their language. They worshipped gods with odd names and had traditions that left Anders both puzzled and disgusted. Apart from the hair and eyes color, Anders and the blond Norse warrior didn’t have much in common.

They could not keep eye contact for long, because the nomad guards were already pushing John and him past the gate-house.

The consort did not have much in common with the North Hills people either. He was nothing like those magnificent creatures made of miles and miles of copper and olive skins, with long legs and those curls: dark and soft like raven’s feathers. Anders would never say such things out loud, since he needed his cocky and confident demeanour as a matter of survival, but he knew his legs were short and stout, like the ones of a labor horse. He was not sharp and angular like John, and no matter how much weight he lost, his curves remained soft and round: almost feminine.  

Since Anders was not a Norseman, but not a North Hiller either, he came to the obvious conclusion that he was nothing.  But the man who was walking by his side: the man he called his husband, had loved him despite that fact. He had loved that strange “nothing” that Anders was. No matter what would happen to them from now on, deep down he would always be grateful for that.

“Damned Gods,” John cursed, which made Anders react, afraid that his husband might be in pain. But the younger man was staring at something above their heads. Anders followed his gaze and felt his stomach rise into his throat. There was a body hung at the end of a long rope on the castle’s highest tower. The hanged man’s distinctive kilt was visible from there.  “Lord Ferguson,” John whispered, before Anders could ask who it was.

Display the corpse of the former leader of the city was indeed a good way to deter anybody from attacking and trying to take Carraig back.

A short flash of memory made its way back into the consort’s mind. The memory took place in Brastàl castle’s Great Hall; Lord Ferguson throwing a vial of oil for John to catch. That was on their wedding night, just before the newlyweds left the great hall to go to their bed chamber. Anders was not able to recognize the nobleman who had teased the grooms about the night they were supposed to spend in each other’s arms. This was only a carcass left there to rot and feed the gulls. Lord Ferguson had had a husband too. Anders remembered Michele saying that he had fled the city. He wondered if Sir Cormag Ferguson, wherever he was now, felt the same burning despair Anders had experienced when he stayed at the side of John’s bed, forced to see him getting delirious with fever and worry every single minute if he was about to lose him. It was probably even worse for sir Ferguson. It had to be worse, because Anders still had John, but there was no hope left for him.

In the courtyard, Nomads and Norsemen were busy taking goods, jewellery, alcohol, furniture and weapons out of the castle and split them into different piles to share the loot.

The banner of the Ferguson clan lay on the ground, forgotten and defiled by dirt and fire. Under the clan’s crest, a guard tower, the motto was still readable: “ _Firsts to the South.”_ It celebrated the courage of the Fergusons, being the clan whose lands were on the border with the Great Plains and its sanguinary barbarian tribes. They had always been the shield protecting the rest of the North Hills from the Nomads intrusions. Now the shield was broken. “ _Firsts to the south and the firsts to fall_ ,” Anders thought.

Anders noticed Michele’s presence in the courtyard. He had been wondering where she could be, since he had not seen her in the morning. The Aklànder could not help detailing the man who stood by her side. The nomad warrior was as huge as a bear and the whole surface of his head covered in scars and red tattoos. His nose sported several piercings and when he tilted his head to listen to the young woman, Anders saw the gaping hole he had in place of his left ear. The pinna was gone – chopped off.  

“Who is that man Michele is speaking to?” Anders asked John. The Nomad men had made the prisoners stop and wait in a corner of the courtyard. They seemed to wait for a direct order to get them into the castle.

John craned his head to look. “His name is Boeran. He’s the chief of the tribe who captured you and kept us prisoner… and he’s also her husband.”

“What!?” While Anders expected the bear-man to be a tribe chief, or something of the like, he had not seen the latter piece of information coming at all.

John did not seem to think there was something abnormal about it. “Yes. All adult women of a nomad tribe are married to their chief. The only exceptions are his own mother and daughters,” the Brastàler explained.

“All of them!?” Anders exclaimed. “I can’t believe all the children I’ve seen running around in the encampment are all his.”

“Of course not, a tribe woman can take a second husband, but she remains the chief’s wife,” John informed Anders in a tired sigh. He leaned against the nearest wall and shut his eyes, resting his head against the rough surface.   

“I’m surprised she agreed with it,” Anders pondered, staring at Michele again. She was the last on earth he would have imagined being tied in marriage bonds. But then again, Anders had never wanted a spouse, and here he was.   

“She’s been brought up as a nomad woman,” John reminded him, “so she doesn’t have a choice if she wants to live among them. Nobody can survive on their own in the plains.”

The nomad chief turned his head again, showing his mutilated ear and Anders felt dizzy. He had seen enough severed body parts for a lifetime.

“In case you are wondering who cut Borean’s ear off, I did it, during a battle in the McGregors’’ lands four years ago,” John explained.  

Anders winced. Sometimes he forgot his husband was capable of great violence as well. And perhaps, Anders had been wrong to assume it was the Norse who had mutilated John’s hand after all. “Did he cut your fingers off in retaliation?” he asked.

The reply did not come right away. John opened his eyes slowly. “Mainly it was because Ivan saw your portrait and Herrick suddenly got very interested in it… and in you. He wanted to know who and where you were. I refused to speak. They had to make me, but they did not wish to do the dirty work themselves. They let Boeran take care of it, and he was more than keen to be the one holding the axe.”

John had narrated it in such a neutral tone, as if it had happened to someone else. Nothing seemed to matter to him anymore. And still, Anders shivered as if the torture was one of his own memories.  

 

 

***

 

The noblemen from the nine clans were all more or less related. The same-sex marriages assured them to be able to make multiple alliances and still avoid consanguinity.

John had Ferguson blood in his veins. His grand-mother on his mother’s side, Iona Ferguson, was born in that clan. Hence, it was the first time Anders set foot in Carraig’s castle, but he knew John had come here many times. And still, his husband looked lost, like he did not recognize anything. It was not that surprising giving the fact most of the furniture, tapestries and artwork had been either burnt, destroyed or moved from inside the donjon. It made the cold space of the castle a lot more echo. And as soon as they entered through the main doors, they began to hear cries and laments without being able to locate their origin. As the nomad guards made the couple climb a flight of stairs, the cries became louder. It’s on the landing, at the top of the stairs, that they discovered the source of the mournful sounds.

About a hundred women and girls were kept there: chained along the long corridor that led to the great hall and guarded by three Norsemen with spears. From their clothing, Anders could tell most of the prisoners were from the castle’s staff.  One did not have to be very clever to guess what the Norse intended to do with them. They were part of the booty; goods to trade, enslaver or knock up.

Some of the captives recognized the former Great Lord right away. John’s kilt already indicated he was a nobleman of the Mitchells’ clan, and since there were only two of them: Anders and him, it was fairly easy to identify him despite his wounded face and shorter hair. In the desperate situation these women were, there was no room for curtseys and politesse anymore.

“Damn you, John Mitchell!!” one of the former castle’s kitchen maids shouted. “You sold us to them! You let them kill our men! You betrayed us all!” There were a few exclamations of agreements among the female captives, but most gazes turned toward Anders and his spouse were charged with deep fear rather than aggro.

The blond man peeked at his husband, only to see that his face had turned into ice: expressionless, stiff and cold. But just as they were about to reach the door that led into the great hall, a hand, restrained by chains, managed to grab the aim of John’s kilt and forced Anders to stop in his tracks as well. The one who was trying to catch the Brastàler’s attention was a woman in her early thirties, wearing a fine, but torn up dress. She was probably the wife of one of the city’s merchants. She had a teenage girl curled up by her side. The girl stared at Anders with big, brown, frightened eyes. The girl showed signs of anemia and Anders wondered for how long they were tied there without food or water.

The woman begged John for his help:  “Please, Your Highness! Please, tell them to let us go! I have my daughter here. She is barely fourteen.” John kept his eyes on the door in front of him and did not look toward the pleading woman a single time, as if she did not exist.

The clansman’s mutism prompted her to turn toward his consort: “Your Grace, have mercy!”  But there was nothing Anders could do for her. He was a war prisoner as well. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed just before the nomad guards hustled John and him into the hall. Anders saw John blink rapidly, like fighting against hot tears.

 

 

The floor of the great hall was covered in a green carpet with darker spots where, Anders suspected with a shiver, the thick fabric had drunk its fair share of blood. At the very end of the room, three, large, yellow-colored windows gave a stunning view on the loch and the illusion of sunrays coming in.  A feast was set on a table in front of what used to be the dais where Lord Ferguson and his consort sat.  The dais was now used to store a large pile of gold and silver artwork and a lot of weapons. On the throne, a drink in his hand, was a man who contemplated his loot like a dragon with its hoard.

“Herrick,” John hissed under his breath and Anders nodded slowly.

The leader of the Norsemen was a short, middle-aged man with a high, balding forehead, eyes of a dull blue and hair like straw. He was not fat but still had cheeks with jowls. The Aklànder immediately recognized the sword with the silver and gold handling, hanging at his belt: the sword of the Great Lords. When Herrick looked in their direction and saw who the nomad guards were bringing in, his thin lips stretched in a smile: “ _the smile of a snake,”_ Anders mused.

Herrick stepped down the dais. “Welcome to my castle, Anders Anderssön!” he greeted the blond man with a heavy accent.  The sentence was a bit halting and hesitant, but Anders had understood everything.

“He speaks our language?” Anders breathed to his husband.  

“I do! Isn’t that wonderful?” Herrick exclaimed, before John could give a response. “Michele taught me like the absolute honeyed-heart she is,” he added, making a gesture toward Michele who walked into the room, accompanied by Ivan, Daisy and that other Norseman Anders had noticed when they were leaving the nomad encampment.  

“So, Michele, did you tell him the whole story as I asked you to?” Herrick asked the healer.

“Yes, Herrick. I did,” she answered. She walked to the table and she poured herself a drink from one of the jugs.

“Perfect. It saves me the trouble and a lot of precious time,” he said, rubbing his hands together like a merchant who just concluded a good deal.  “And you kept him alive,’ he added with a chin gesture toward the former Great Lord, “that is good as well.”

“I thought maybe you would want him to live a little longer, now that we have his consort,” Michele observed, like neither Anders nor John were standing in the room.  

Anders gave her a betrayed look, but she ignored him. Her willingness to talk and to heal John had only been a device after all, Anders realized with disappointment. He had misjudged her. She was just another pawn, nothing else: Herrick’s pawn as it turned out.

Ivan and the other Norseman were staying backward, standing next to the exit and ready to block any escaping attempt. The nomad guards had stepped back as well, and even if they couldn’t understand what was discussed, they surveyed the room like wolves in bushes: waiting for the opportune moment to intervene.  Daisy grabbed a carrot from the table. She bit into it with an insolent wink in Anders’ direction. He was hungry and thirsty, but the knot of fear in his stomach had the only advantage of numbing the cramps a little. However, he would not be able to survive on fear only for very long.

John’s voice boomed in the room: deep and sudden like thunder. “What are you going to do with the women, Herrick?” His husband was casting an icy look upon the leader of the Norsemen and frowning so hard Anders was worried he might reopen his cuts.

“Find them good husbands who are going to take care of them, of course,” Herrick replied. “My men followed me here and they expect something in return for their service. The starvation made most of the women of our island barren, and those who are not only give birth to one or two sickly children who usually die in infancy. “

“Oh yes, I see. You have nothing but good intentions,” John remarked, his teeth bare and voice like the growl of a prowling hound dog. "You find them husbands to replace the ones you slaughtered.”

Herrick remained unaffected by the accusation. On the contrary, he smiled. “I find it funny that you would say that. I thought they were dead because of your poor defense and strategic decisions.”

As a reflex, Anders had stepped aside and put a hand to the middle of John’s chest: ready to prevent him from jumping to Herrick’s throat. But it was like the young man had suddenly been turned into a stone statue.  The hound could still growl, but he did not have the strength to bite anymore.

“It Is a real shame I have to give you up to those savages,” Herrick observed. “Your spite, your anger, your fire: they could have been very useful.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Anders saw Michele flinch. Surely she did not like hearing Herrick call “savages” the people who had adopted her.  

John’s gaze dropped and he shook his head. “If there was once fire within me, it’s gone now.”

Anders slowly withdrew his hand from his chest.

“Oh John,” Herrick sighed. “We both know this is not true.” He refilled his wine cup and the sound of the liquid pouring into it made Anders even thirstier. “I saw how you handled torture,” the leader of the Norse commented. “That was impressive. I think we would have cut all of your fingers and you would have never begged us to stop. You are still filled with contained rage, but it is the only thing you have left, I am afraid.”

Anders gulped: any thoughts of food and drink had left him at once.

“But luckily for your left hand,” Herrick went on, “we finally captured your…”

“Husband,” Michele supplied.

“We finally captured your husband before it had to come to that.”

“What do you want from him, anyway?” John spat, stepping aside as if trying to use his body to shield Anders from the other blond man. “I doubt you ever believed in that tale about Anders being some sort of banished deity. You know this is nothing but madness born from the mind of a man, sick with jealousy and a wounded ego, who could not bear the idea of being rejected by a woman he deemed inferior to him.”  

“No. Of course not. I do not believe a word of it,” Herrick had no trouble admitting.  

“Why take us prisoner, then? You have me now: let Anders go. You can cut both my arms and hang me on the castle tower next to my great-cousin if you want, but you don’t need Anders.”

“It does not matter what I believe,” Herrick said with a dismissive gesture. “What matters is what the people of my island believe.”

“I’m ready to beg if it’s what is needed,” John insisted. “I could beg you not to torment or hurt the man I love, but I doubt those pleas can sway a man who does not possess a heart.”

Herrick frowned and turned to Michele who translated John’s sentence for him.

“If it is a kind of exchange you are suggesting, it cannot work,” the Norseman told John. “You are unimportant to me now. You are not my prisoner: you are the nomads’. They are the ones holding a grudge against you and your forefathers. I could not care less about what happens to you from now on.”

Anders stepped toward his spouse and put a hand between the younger man’s shoulder blades briefly. They exchanged a look. John seemed more concerned about Anders than he was worried over his own fate.  

“ But I’m in need of you, Anders,” Herrick told the blond man with a smile. “In fact, we need each other.” He served a generous portion of wine in a goblet and walked up to Anders, handing it out for him.

Despite his dry tongue and throat, the Aklànder considered refusing the offered goblet, but instead, he took it and emptied it on the floor, in a slow, deliberate move as he held Herrick’s gaze. The wine soaked the carpet, joining the blood already staining it.

“I do not drink with the enemy,” Anders stated.  

Impassible, Herrick took the empty goblet from Anders hand and went back to the table to fill it again.  “I’m not your enemy. I’m your friend,” the Norse leader corrected, keeping his composure. “Now that the North Hills had lost their king, it is going to turn into chaos and civil war if someone does not rule over the entire territory again. Once the country is under my command, peace will be restored. I am sure a man like you would want a good place in the new order. I can offer you a new life.” He walked up to Anders with the refilled glass and he scrunched up his nose as he leant toward him. “Unless, of course, you want to spend the little you have left stinking like a beggar.”

This time, Anders took the goblet and did not spill its content, but he did not drink from it either.  “What about John?” he simply asked.

Herrick’s gaze shifted from Anders to his spouse, and his eyes were filled with pity close to disgust. “He cannot be a warrior anymore. He is finished. The rank and privileges you acquired through your alliance with his family, you are never going to get back. “

The long fingers of John’s left hand closed around Anders’ forearm. “He’s right. Don’t think about me, Anders,” John enjoined him. “I do not matter. Do what is better for yourself, but be careful and do not trust him. He’s as treacherous as a viper.”

Herrick hailed the nomads and he ordered something to Ivan’s Norse companion. The nomads grabbed John by the shoulders and dragged him toward the door. Anders tried to follow them but Herrick held him back by the forearm.

“What are they doing? Where are they bringing him?” Anders bellowed, taking his arm away from Herrick’s grip in a jerking move.

“I asked Seth to make sure they would bring John some place he can rest while I’m speaking to you,” he explained to pacify Anders. Then, he dismissed Ivan and Daisy, only keeping Michele in the room with the two of them.  The Aklànder stared at the door by which they had taken his husband away until Herrick spoke up again. “Now that we are only between friends, we can discuss our collaboration. Take a seat and something to eat,” he offered, drawing a chair for Anders.

Anders eyed Herrick and the table, still wary. He wondered when Herrick was going to stab him in the back. But his stomach reminded him that he did not know where would be the next time he would be that close to food and drink. He looked into the goblet of wine he was still holding. He had seen Herrick and Michele drink from the same jug. If there was poison in the wine, they would be both sick already. He took a small, leery sip from the goblet and sat in the offered chair. Herrick took a seat across him, giving him a smile that Anders did not return.

“Please,” the Norseman insisted, gesturing toward the well-stocked table. “Be my guest.”

Anders emptied his goblet in a gulp and grabbed everything he could fill his plate with: smoked meat and fish, boiled eggs, bread, baked potatoes, nuts, apples, berry jam, vegetables in vinegar. He stuffed his face, forgetting about any etiquette and any table manners Lady Johnson had ever tried to stuff into his skull.  Michele threw him a disgusted glance and Herrick had still his snake-like smirk. Anders could pretend he was not paying attention to them, but he was in fact watching them, using every opportunity he had to slip food into his coat’s pocket.

By the end of the meal, he managed to steal an apple, a few crusts of bread, a slice of jerky meat and a handful of raisin.  He was pretty sure Michele had seen him take the food, but she kept it for herself, and Anders was intrigued when he saw her do the same and hide an apple under her apron when Herrick’s attention was occupied elsewhere.

When they were all finished, Anders dried his mouth with a napkin. Saying he enjoyed the company was a lie, and he did not intend on staying there if he did not have to: better get down to business right away. His and John’s future now weighed on his own rather small shoulders. Everything depended on his skills to manipulate and bargain. That was usually a territory where he felt at ease, but he suspected he also had a master of the art seated at the other side of the table.  Nothing about the present situation was easy. Any mistake could be fatal. “What do you want from me?” he asked Herrick without preamble.

The answer was as direct as the question. “I am going to take Brastàl while it is undefended, and as I understood, you know the place well.”

Herrick did not know about Duncan, Anders realized. The Norsemen were in for a surprise if they headed to Brastàl, thinking they wouldn’t find any resistance. He would not be the one to warn them, though. He had not even told John that his rival had taken the castle and the throne, and he did not intend to do it any time soon.

Anders cleared his throat. “You want me to help you invade my own country.”

“The North Hills is not your country,” Herrick reminded him. “I doubt people from here ever made you feel like you were one of their own.”  

There were exceptions: the Johnson brothers, Annie, George, Carl, Lady Mitchell, Master Sileas, Madraid Aileen and her priestesses… and John, of course. But overall, Anders had to admit Herrick was right. Most people treated him like a stranger at best. That was when they did not try to assassinate him.

“What will happen to my husband if I choose to help you?”

Herrick had a displeased frown and his affable mask cracked a little. The fact Anders was constantly bringing up the subject of the John’s fate seemed to irritate him. “He’s the Nomads’ prisoner. There is nothing I can do for him,” he objected. “Besides, I can give you as many women as you want: women who would do whatever you’d want them to do: domesticated ones.“ He turned to Michele. ”What’s the right word for that?”

“Obedient… submissive.”

“Yes. Obedient women… young ones and not deflowered yet if that is what you like the most. You can have five of them, even ten if you accept to collaborate with me.  I have young, pretty ones among the lot I captured here.”

Anders thought of the young girl with the big brown eyes, curled up against her mother in the corridor and he felt sick to his stomach.  “Not interested.”

“You prefer men.”

“I prefer John.”

All Anders wanted was for his enemy to understand that there was no deal possible if John was not taken in consideration. The sooner Herrick understood there was no way around that subject or no bribe tempting enough to make Anders forget about it, the better it would be.

“Surely there is something you can do to avoid them skinning him alive,” Anders insisted, standing up. “You hold the weapons that tear down castles. And no offense,” he added, nodding in Michele’s direction,” but the Nomads with their little bows and axes would not achieve these conquests on their own. You have a pretty good negotiation tool there.  ”

Herrick and the healer exchanged a look. Michele was expressionless. It was hard to tell what she was thinking.

“I guess, maybe there would be something I could do about it,” Herrick pondered out loud. “They do owe me a favor or two, after all.”

Herrick took the wine jug, but Anders leant across the table and put his hand over his cup, preventing him from refilling it. “John will be kept safe from the Nomads and set free,” he demanded, detaching every words. He held the Norseman’s gaze, not intending to let it escape until they got to an agreement. Herrick had a nasty little smile and Anders realized he had been fooled. The older man’s apparent resistance and offers of women were just a way to measure exactly how much Anders cared for his spouse and what he was ready to give for him.

“John will remain under my protection until we leave for Brastàl together, you and I, because I need to keep you by my side. On the day of our departure, I will even give him a horse and he will be free to leave,” Herrick assured him.   

Anders’ fingers were trembling over the wine cup.

“You have my word,” the Islander added, to shut any remaining hesitation in Anders’ mind.

The former consort slowly withdrew his hand and Herrick could finally pour some wine in his cup.

Of course, nothing prevented Herrick from betraying his word at the first occasion, but it was not like Anders had many other options. And he knew there was a point on which Herrick was not lying: John had absolutely no value for him whatsoever. With his hand missing and his army dispersed: he was dead as a warrior and as a leader. He posed no threat to the Norsemen’s invasion anymore.

An important point still needed clarification. “What tells me you won’t sacrifice me at the top of that mountain on your island once I helped you and I’m not useful anymore?” Anders asked.  “I thought the lot of you wanted me to die so that Bragi-god can be judged and the drought and eruptions stopped.”

Herrick was impassive. “I’m your best guarantee you’ll not end up drinking poison on that mountain. If people on the island learn that you are still alive, they will want that sacrifice, thinking it will appease the gods’ wrath. But I do not share their naivety. You are no god, you are just a man. I need to colonize the North Hills with my people and they won’t want to leave the Island if I send you there and they keep on thinking your death will sort everything.”

This was as good for Anders as it showed how much Herrick was a despotic leader. “You want to take away their hope just to fulfill your territorial ambitions?”

“Yes,” Herrick granted him. “It is for their own good. If they stay there, praying the gods and making sacrifices, within two generations, only their skeletons will remain on that island.” Herrick stood up and walked around the table. “I am the best friend you can have right now, Anders Anderssön. If you were not under my protection, the nomads would have already killed you when they found you on their lands, and if something happens to me, I cannot guarantee my men would not bring you to the island to perform the sacrifice. I am your best chance at survival.”    

Anders gritted his teeth and his hands balled into fists. It seemed that the only ally he could get was also the man who had soundly defeated his husband on the battlefield and ordered his mutilation.  

Michele had followed the whole conversation looking totally unaffected. Anders wondered what Herrick had promised her or what manipulation he used on her to have her so meek and mild. Herrick asked her something in the Norse language and she produced a roll of parchment from a bag she carried.

At first, Anders though it would be a sort of contract, but as Herrick unrolled it on the table next to him, the Aklànder realized it was a map of the North Hills. The Norsemen had probably found it in the castle’s library. Someone had added notes on the map, with strange symbols that reminded Anders of wood twigs when the wind makes them fall at random to the ground.

“Speak to me about Brastàl. How many days of travel is it from here?” Herrick questioned.

Anders did not answer the question right away. “What will happen to John’s family: his mother and her servants, and the chiefs of the castle guard?”

“No harm would come to them if they do not resist.”

His throat tight with culpability, Anders touched the map. The tip of his index brushed the line of Carraig road from South to North. “By horse across the hills it takes five or six days,” he explained. “And by boat, with favorable winds, I’d say maybe ten days.”  

 

 

 

Herrick nodded, satisfied and he added a few notes to the map with a pen. “And the castle: what can you tell me about it?”

“If I’m to answer that question, I want to be reunited with my spouse once this conversation is over and spend the rest of the day with him and also every night until his liberation,” Anders required. He was betraying his own clan; he would at least sell his treason for a good price.

The Norse leader frowned, puzzled, and his eyes shifted to Michele who translated the request for him.

“You understand that since he is the nomads’ prisoner and that I had not negotiated with them yet, they won’t want me to let him walk freely. I would have to lock you up together,” Herrick warned him.  

Anders acquiesced. He did not care in what conditions he would spend the night, as long as John was not left alone. His eyes went back the ink dot that indicated Brastàl on the map, where the Eachann river merged with the Quigley river. “The castle’s and the city’s gates are facing the river’s docks. There are four guard towers, but the North-West one had been recently repaired; it’s the most feeble point of the battlements,” he informed Herrick. His voice was neutral but his conscience’s cry of agony was deafening inside his mind.

“That’s good, Anders. That’s very good,” he approved.  “You are free to go now. Seth will escort you to your husband as you asked.”

 

 

***

The door where Anders was led had a small, barred window piercing it, but as it turned out, the former Great Lord had not been thrown in the castle jail but locked up in a small bedroom of the servants' quarter. Seth confiscated Anders’ leather bag and he searched him for weapons but all he found in his pockets was food and he let the Aklànder keep it. Once the search was over, he pushed him into the room with a grunt and locked the door behind him.

John stood from the bed and Anders rushed to him. The air was knocked out of the dark haired man’s lungs and he nearly lost balance when their chests collided and Anders hugged him with all the strength of his arms.  

When John was able to breathe again, he heaved a sad sigh. “Anders…”

“Shut up!” Anders ordered, not letting go and pressing his face further into the crook of John’s neck.  “I don’t want to hear it. I need this right now.”

Little by little, the younger man relaxed. The arm with the unharmed hand circled Anders’ shoulders and hugged back.

They were both emaciated, malodorous, ailing, but it did not matter.  John had referred to him as 'the man he loved' earlier, and that was one more reason for Anders not to let go. They just held each other in silence, taking comfort from the other’s breathing and heartbeat. John did not ask him what had happened after he was gone from the great hall or what agreement Anders had concluded with Herrick, and the blond man was glad not to have to answer such questions now.

John’s hand went down Anders’ back slowly and found a resting place in the slender curve of his waist and, as they parted somewhat, John rested his forehead to the smaller man’s and closed his eyes. “I wish you didn’t end up in that situation. I’m sorry you had to marry me, Anders.”

“You can be sorry if you want, but I’m not.”

The pressure of John’s forehead on his was replaced by the brunet’s lips leaving a kiss there. “You are braver than I am.”  

“Then, it means that you don’t know yourself,” Anders objected, stepping away from his husband.  

He offered John the food he had stolen from the Great Hall. John accepted it and he sat on the bed to eat.

Anders walked to the window. The room was in a high position over the loch. One would surely break their neck if they tried to take that escape route. The blond man crossed the room to the door and threw a glance through the barred opening. Seth was gone but two Norse warriors were seated at a table in the narrow corridor and playing some sort of board game.

Even if Herrick kept his promise and allowed John to leave, what would he do with Anders once he would have gotten all the help he needed from him and that Anders would not be of any use?

“I don’t want to die,“ Anders uttered, not realizing immediately that he had said it out loud.   

“We’re all going to, one day or another,” John pointed out with fatalism, cleaning the last crumbs of bread from his lap.   

“Yes, but I want to die rich, drunk, in fine clothes and in the middle of a formidable orgasm. Since I can’t check any of those boxes now, then it’s not my time yet. Besides, I need you for the latter, because I don’t want to die wanking,” Anders asserted.  

John’s chuckle turned into a cough.

The faint but pained groan that followed alerted the Aklànder. “John?”

His husband was doing his best to suppress a wince. “I’m fine. There is nothing to worry about.” Every word was a poorly hidden lie.  

“I’m going to get us out of here,” Anders decided, more resolved than ever.   

“How? We have no chance to manage that on our own,” John pointed out.  

“No. We don’t. You’re right,” Anders approved.

John glanced at him with suspicion, because even if the sentence in itself sounded like a confirmation that they were doomed, Anders was now smirking like a fox who had noticed a hole in the wall of the hen house.     


	13. A Kindred Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders wanted to believe that a kindred spirit could still be found within those walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank to Katyushha for the betaing, her helpful insights and her deep comprehension of the story that never ceases to amaze me.  
> Thanks to Dragon4488 for always giving me more inspiration with her fabulous drawings.

Anders never thought he would miss the Nomads’ tents, but their little oval stoves made the tribe’s dwellings cozier than the couple’s current room. The room of the servants’ quarters of Carraig castle was icy cold. The fact its walls sheltered its occupants from the wind was the only thing that prevented it from being even colder. There was a candlestick with a single candle, but Anders had nothing to light it with and burning beeswax wouldn’t give much heat off anyway. The only source of warmth available was John. It was not enough to make it exactly comfortable, but it was way better than nothing. The single bed was somehow large enough to accommodate the two of them, giving that they clung to each other under Anders’ cloak they used as a blanket.

John’s head was on his husband’s chest, his face half hidden into Anders’ unbuttoned coat. His breath created a humid patch in the fabric of the blond man’s linen shirt. The momentary stillness of the body snuggled to his told Anders that the brunet had traveled back to the land of dreams. It was not a peaceful sleep, though. Every time there was a noise in the corridor or any other kind of sound coming from somewhere in the castle, John would wake up with a start: his breath short and frightened and his unharmed hand grabbing the blond man’s hip, arm or anything else he could reach and squeeze to the point of marking Anders’ flesh. And every time, he would realize Anders was still there and that there was no immediate danger, and fall back asleep, muttering an apology.  Anders could not be angry or even annoyed: it just worried him to see how affected John’s mind was. He wondered if Master Sileas knew a cure for those kind of invisible wounds.

With his eyes to the ceiling and his hands tucked under his neck, Anders had given up on sleeping and his insomnia gave him a lot of time to ponder. He thought of Tiolam, hoping she was fine and able to hunt mice and rabbits to survive. He imagined her digging a den and being the woods’ little terror, scaring all the other foxes. This idea made him smile.

His thoughts drifted to Mikkel. Was he prisoner in Brastàl or had he chosen to side with Duncan? Maybe he had even been able to get back to Aklànd.

Anders also wondered what week it was. Axl’s birthweek had most likely passed since it was nearly there the last time Anders had seen the Mitchell’s lands. He was not able to count the days since he had escaped from Brastàl castle: it felt like years, but it was less than a moon, surely, because spring seemed to be around the corner but not quite there yet. He had noticed the change in the weather in the last days. The grass did not wear its white coat of frost in the morning anymore.

Ty had settled his premarital trials for the week of _Inté,_ the first one of spring. But in these times of war, Anders doubted Ty would be able to convoke at least three chieftains or consorts to form the trials’ jury.

“What are you thinking about?” a hoarse voice murmured.

Anders lowered his gaze. In the half-darkness, drowsy brown eyes studied him.

“I was thinking about Tyrone,” Anders told his husband, “and about the fact that even if it’s technically Aklànd’s turn to host the spring gathering this year, there is no chance he’ll be able to gather the nine clans for the occasion.”

“Eight.”

“Sorry?”  

“The Fergusons have lost all their estate,” John reminded him, “they are still a clan, but they lost their vote at the council table. Of the ruling clans, only eight remain.”  

Anders gulped and wished John did not notice his trouble. “ _Seven, in fact,”_ he corrected in mind, “ _because the same happened to the Mitchells.”_

The timing was not good enough yet to inform the former lord that Clan Mitchell had lost everything. He was pretty sure that in his current state, John would not be able to stomach it. “ _Ignorance is bliss_ ,” Anders reminded himself to justify his lie. While bliss was probably not an emotion John was currently capable of, ignorance was better than sheer despair.

He had informed his husband the night before that Herrick wanted to take Brastàl. Anders had been as vague as possible about his involvement. He had confessed to his husband having given some minor details to Herrick about the distance between Carraig and Brastàl and the state of the defense walls. John had not blamed Anders for anything, knowing he did not have any choice, but he had agreed they could not let that attack on Brastàl happen and that they had to escape before Herrick would try to get more information. John did not know all the truth about what was really going on in Brastàl and Duncan’s usurpation, but if there was still even a spark of hope in him, Anders had to keep it alive no matter what, or else they would never make it out of here.

Anders reached a hand to comb John’s tangled curls through his fingers. “Did you sleep well?” he asked to change subject.

“I’m not sure,” John whispered. He shifted to rest his head on his husband’s shoulder. “I feel like I’m even more exhausted than before I went to sleep. You? I hope I did not move too much.” It seemed that John had not been conscious of his tossing during the night.

“I slept fine,” Anders lied. Lying to his spouse had become a new lifestyle, apparently. The truth would have been _: ”no, I didn’t: I spent the night worrying about you and every single person I know,”_ but for several reasons, that was not an answer he would dare to give.

He sat up and pushed John off him gently. “You should try to sleep some more,” he advised. “I’ll go out and see if I can bring you something to eat,” he added as he left the bed.  

John did not protest and he curled up under Anders’ cloak to keep his warmth.

Anders went to the door and knocked from inside. “Oi!” he hailed the two Norse guards in the corridor. “Let me out!”

He was not sure they had understood, but what he wanted was obvious, so at some point, one of them reached for the keys on his belt and walked to the door. He let Anders out and locked the door back after him.

At first, Anders thought one of them would follow him, to keep an eye on him, but they just let him walk away. Further on his way up to the second floor, Anders met three more Norse warriors who quickly bowed down before him, calling him “ _Bragi_ ”. Anders resumed climbing the stairs with a frown. This was not all that surprising after all. In their eyes, he was a renegade god and a vessel to be sacrificed, but a god nonetheless. He wondered if there was a way to play it to his advantage.

As he reached the passage leading to the great hall, he noticed that the captive women were no longer kept there. He did not dare ask Herrick about them when he walked into the large room. The Norse leader was with Ivan, Daisy and Seth, busy planning some operations, as far as Anders could understand. With a courteous tone that did not entirely conceal the threat behind it, Herrick made Anders understand that he was allowed to circulate freely as long as he did not leave the castle and its courtyard. Herrick did not seem overly worried his guest would give him the slip. He had understood something the Nomads had figured out pretty quickly as well: as long as they kept John prisoner, Anders would stick around like a frog to water. Without a doubt, this controlled freedom was a way for Herrick to gain his trust, but the Aklànder did not intend on staying long enough for them to become bosom buddies.

Since there was no food in the great hall and nothing or nobody that interested him, Anders signified his consent to follow the rules and took his leave right away.  

He had a precise idea in mind on how he would spend his morning, and that required a not-so-innocent little stroll through the castle.

Downstairs, Anders walked passed a heavy oaken door that seemed to be the one of the armory. He stopped for a second and listened, just in case. He heard voices speaking the Norse language to the other side. Anders was not swift enough to steal a weapon under their nose. He had no safe place to hide any dagger under his clothes and moreover, the guards would search him every time he’d want to get into the room where they kept John. At some point he would have to find a way to get a weapon, but not so soon.

He pushed on.  It was not the armory he was searching for, but a library.

At the very end of the passage, he found a little door that was ajar and after he had cast a nervous glance above his shoulder, he pushed it open.

The invaders had overthrown the shelves. Anatomy treaties, love poetry and astronomy books were scattered at random on the floor. When they had sacked the library, the enemies were probably in search of something more valuable than paper and ink. But those were exactly what Anders was after. He picked one of the poetry books. ‘ _Adoring Confessions’_ , said the title: black letters on a red leather cover. Anders scoffed. It was sappy and corny enough nobody would regret that book if he deprived it from a few pages. There was usually blank ones inside the covers. He tore one of them out and threw the book back on the pile.

Then, he found a writing desk in a corner and searched for a feather pen. He found what he was seeking under a pile of letters he did not take the time to read. He fumbled through the desk’s disparate items to locate the ink bottle, but he soon realized the glass recipient had been smashed on the floor. Fortunately, a bit of the ink had pooled into a hole of the stone floor and had not dried yet. The Aklànder sat on the floor, wet the tip of his pen in the ink puddle and hastened to write his missive. His heart was drumming as he pricked up an ear in case people were coming.  If someone caught him doing that, he would have to answer very serious questions: questions that could cost John a few more fingers. Fortunately, he was not disturbed and got to put a final point to his missive: four short sentences in the right corner of the page.

_‘ I’m still alive. Husband as well. We are prisoners in Carraig. The invaders are marching on Brastàl. ‘_

He pondered for a moment on how to sign the letter, and he chose to draw a simplified version of his tutelary spirit’s symbol. Most people who did not know how to write used their spirit’s symbol as a signature. Anders chose to do the same, in case the letter fell in the wrong hands.

He had no pounce to sprinkle on the message and prevent the ink from spreading, so all he could do was blowing gently on the inked letters to help them dry.

Anders only wished Herrick and his warriors did not think he would try to alert another clan’s chieftain. And now that the actual message was written, it was even more dangerous if anyone caught him with it.

He tore the corner where the message was written to remove the paper excess. He rolled it carefully to make it as small as possible and wrote “Tyrone J.” on the side of the paper roll.

He removed one of his boots and hid his letter and the remains of the blank paper page under the sole.

The rest was a piece of cake: too easy even. He walked out the library and outside the castle without encountering any obstacle.

The Nomad warriors ignored him and the Norsemen treated him with a curious and reverent distance. He still made sure no one was watching him when he spotted the pigeon loft and slipped inside by the unlocked door.

Startled by his sudden appearance, a few pigeons flew away by an opening in the ceiling.

Anders’ ambitions crashed abruptly on the wall of reality. All the cages in the loft were empty, including the one that had the Johnsons’ family crest carved at the front of its wooden structure. The pigeons that could go to Aklànd had been either killed or freed.

Anders sighed as he contemplated the empty loft and the grey feathers and dust floating in the light coming from the pierced roof. He had never counted on his brother to free him from Carraig castle. It would take Ty too long to organize a rescue party and get here. But maybe, if he was aware of the upcoming attack,  he could find allies in the remaining clans and maybe make it more difficult for Herrick to invade the North Hills any further. If the pigeons couldn’t help, he would have to be the one carrying the message to Aklànd, but he would not leave without John, and that was the most delicate part. What his husband had pointed out the night before was true. Alone, they could not make it. They had no chance to be able to break out of that fortress without a little help. But the Aklànder wanted to believe he could still find a kindred spirit within those walls. His success now depended on his diplomatic aptitudes, his charisma, and above all, his power of persuasion. For the first time, and probably the last, Anders really wished he was Bragi the norse god of poetry. Some unearthly powers would make his task much easier.

Anders decided to continue his exploration, because getting to know Carraig castle and its surroundings was a vital part of any good break out plan.

Once outside, Anders climbed to the walkway of the outer walls. The sun was shining bright that day: a vision rarely beheld in the North Hills. He stopped for a moment and closed his eyes to let the sunrays warm his face. He rested his hand on the top of the wall’s crenelations. The stones had absorbed some of the sun’s heat and made the rough surface still pleasant under his palms. Anders took a deep breath. The fresh air smelled of hay and damp earth. From where he stood, he could see the city and hear the faint sound of an uplifting tune played on a flute, though he could not locate the player. For Carraig’s inhabitants, life was going on. Some of the citizens would stay and do their best to get accustomed to the new rulers. But further on the road that went West toward Greenlea, Anders could see carts and silhouettes hunched under the weight of their luggage: families of North Hillers leaving the city that was not governed by their kind anymore.

The cries of the gulls attracted Anders’ attention away, to the loch and the Norse boats anchored around the docks. He wondered for a moment if it was a similar boat that had carried his mother to the North Hills. Hers had probably been smaller, he concluded; more like a fishing boat.

As he walked along the battlements, Anders examined the state of the walls. The North wall had a door that led into the city and was guarded by four warriors. The walls facing the loch, the south and west ones, were damaged but well-watched since Herrick’s men were busy rebuilding them. There were no doors on the East side. Anders took the opportunity of taking a piss down that wall to evaluate its height. A jump would surely break a few bones on any normally constituted person and the murk moat seemed rather unwelcoming. Anders pondered over the possibility of climbing the wall down with a rope, before remembering that his husband’s missing fingers made that kind of acrobatics impossible for him. There was also the moat to cross and John was not a good swimmer, even with two perfectly functioning arms and hands.  

Two Norse guards walked past Anders and once they were far enough not to see him anymore, he took the tiny scroll addressed to Ty from inside his boot. He shredded it into pieces and he let the wind carry them into the moat, where nobody would find them.

Passing the castle’s bakery chimney, another flight of stairs led Anders back down in the courtyard and that’s when he noticed a circular building with four doors and a dome roof. When he stepped inside, Anders noticed that the golden censers used for burning the purifying sage were gone. The Fergusons’ small private temple was uninteresting to the enemies now that they had taken the only things that had monetary value in the spirits’ sanctuaries. All the offering bowls were empty as well: all of them but one.

A red, juicy apple lay alone on one of the altars: an odd touch of color in the otherwise stony grey scene. A smile appeared on Anders lips. He took the fruit, threw it in the air and caught it back playfully. His grin widened. There was much more hope to find that kindred spirit than he first thought.  

***

 

Anders walked past the kitchens and headed to the room where John was waiting for him when he heard light, rapid footsteps and the ruffling of a long dress. Michele appeared around the corner and Anders hailed her. She looked away and rushed past him. He called her again and tried to catch the sleeve of her dress but she kept her arm out of the blond man’ reach and accelerated.

“Damn it!” Anders cursed. He thought about trying to catch up on her but abandoned. He would get his chance later. She would not be able to avoid him forever.

 

***

 

As he had predicted, the guard did not check his boots thoroughly. When the Norse guard locked the door of the room, Anders still had the unused rest of poetry book page hidden in his right boots, and, tucked in his left boot, a little piece of charcoal he had stolen from a cold brazier in the courtyard.

Anders found John seated on the bed, his back to the wall and a knee up to his chest. The young man was staring at the opposite corner of the room, dark eyebrows drawn together, as if he wanted to drill a hole into the stone with the ferocity of his glare. Anders noticed the barely touched plate of food left on the floor, the empty mug, the wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed and the new, clean bandage to the young man’s wounded hand.

John only realized his husband was there when Anders cleared his throat. He blinked slowly, like someone who just woke up.

“Someone changed you bandage?” Anders inquired.

“Michele came here and cleaned my hand,” John explained in a quiet voice. “Have you eaten yet?”

Anders shook his head.

“Do you want some?” John offered, pointing at the plate.

“What is it?”

“Roasted pigeon.”

The blond man scrunched up his nose. “No, thanks. I already have this,” he said, taking the apple from his pocket and taking a bite into it. “I found this in the Fergusons’ private temple,” he explained around his mouthful.  

“You can’t eat that,” John exclaimed. He reached out his bandaged hand, as if trying to stop him from taking another bite. “It’s for the spirits and the paupers!”

Anders shrugged and another chunk of apple disappeared in his mouth.  “We are.”

John’s expression changed from alarmed to sad. “Yes. I guess that’s what we are: poor beggars.”

“Exactly,” Anders agreed, pointing a finger at  his spouse. “And that’s why I do not intend to rot here much longer.” He threw the apple toward John who caught it with his left hand in a brisk move. Anders had a satisfied smile: this attested that his husband still had some reflexes and vivacity.

Without any explanations, Anders proceeded to take his boots off. He retrieved the blank page and the charcoal from inside them. He moved, bare-foot, to the window and smoothened the sheet of paper on the sill. He began to carefully trace the first letters with the charcoal. He nearly broke his makeshift pencil when a warm hand was placed on the side of his neck. A pleasant shiver, like the ghost of a forgotten sensation, ran down his flank.

“What are you writing?” John whispered, in the tone of conspiracy.

“A love letter,” replied Anders, straight-faced.

***

 

After sundown, when Anders got an invitation to the evening banquet from Herrick through one of the Norse guards, the stealthy missive, written with charcoal, was burning a hole in the Aklànder’s calf muscle inside his boot.

After he had put a light peck to John’s lips and having recommended him with sarcasm not to do too many exciting things during his absence, Anders straightened the fold of his kilt on his shoulder and walked out of the room and to the great hall. He did not have to wear an armor to feel like he was going to battle.

Earlier, along with his invitation, Herrick had had a guard bring Anders hose pants and a clean Norse tunic with fine embroidering around the neckline and sleeves. The Aklànder had refused to wear them and he had kept his dusty travel clothes on. He was ready to go lengths to stay in Herrick’s good grace long enough to make his plan work, but the day when Anders Johnson Mitchell would stoop as low as wearing pants instead of a kilt was not bound to happen any time soon.

Herrick greeted him with all the warmth and politeness a serpent could manage. Then,  Anders was left alone to sip whisky and observe the small assembly from a corner of the room, leaning against the wall and half-hidden behind a curtain. Ivan, Daisy and Seth were there, as well as three other men who seemed to hold some high position in the Norse army. One of those men had hair as flaming red as Daisy’s. The two others had the base of their scalp shaven but still sported long, blond braids at the top of their heads. The assembly was completed by eight nomad warriors who, judging by their facial tattoos, were tribe chiefs. Borean, Michele’s nomad husband, was among them, but the healer herself had not shown up yet and Anders counted on her presence.

When she finally appeared in the doorframe, she was without her stick for once. Anders heaved a little sigh of relief.

The chatters faltered and all gazes turned her way. She had braided her hair like the tribe women and traced lines of khôl to enhance her steel grey eyes. She wore a cream white and wine red tunic cut to the knees. Long, golden ear pendants completed her elegant outfit. Anders had eyes to see, so he could understand why the others seemed entranced by her magnetism, but he did not share their fascination as he would have before.

When she joined him, Borean acted like a cock in a barnyard around one of its hens. Anders had a little snide laugh that he muffled into his cup. He simply had to wait that she got tired of Borean’s rooster nuptial parade and that she’d would want to take some distance. Eventually, when she did, Anders took a strategic approach. He walked to her with a carafe of wine: a silent offer for a refill that she accepted.

“Maybe you can satisfy my curiosity,” Anders began, pouring the red liquid into her glass. “Rumor has it that nomad women don’t wear any undergarments. Is it true or is it just another tale made to make the hopeless North Hills teenage boys drool on the front of their shirt? Are you wearing underwear right now?”

She had an amused smile. “Maybe, maybe not,” she hinted, before taking a sip. “In either case, you’d be the last one to know.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” Anders decided.

“I would have said ‘yes’, and you’d still take it as a ‘no’,“ she huffed.  

“See? You know me so well,” the Aklànder observed with a smirk. “You and I are meant to get along: like two peas in a pod.”

“If you say so,” she sighed, looking bored with him already.   

“Thanks, by the way.”

“What for?”

“For saying I’d be the last one to know and not that I’d never know. Being the last means I’m still on your list,” Anders teased her.  

She rolled her eyes.  

Anders grew serious and he waited before speaking again. He looked into his glass and shook it until the whisky formed a maelstrom. “No. I mean: thank you for having tended to John’s wound today. Even if you probably just did it so Herrick can keep John longer and make me do what he wants, I’m still grateful you took care of my spouse. ”

Michele stared at him for long silent seconds, as if she was pondering whether she should be touched by his gratitude or just ignore it. “I wonder how he puts up with you, to be honest,” she finally said.  

“John?”

“Yes.”

Anders shrugged. “Well, he loves me,” he affirmed. “I’m a likable person,” he added with a crooked smile, knowing she would disagree.   

“I think you are a cocky, sly and sleazy bastard and what he finds in you is still a mystery to me,” she admitted.  

Anders laughed and raised his cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

She did not share the toast. She grew pensive and stared into space as she drank from her cup again.

Herrick’s invitation to sit at the table was translated in the two other languages by Michele and Anders took a place by her side. Throughout the dinner, Herrick asked Anders questions about Brastàl: nothing related to its defenses, but general information about the local feasts, the commerce and trade, the religious organizations. Anders answered cautiously, and between questions, he stuffed his pockets with food for John, even if the former lord seemed to have lost appetite since Michele’s visit in the morning.    

The dinner was coming to an end and nearly everyone had emptied their plates and washed the rich food down with a considerable amount of whisky and wine.

So far, the spirit of fortune cooperated with Anders and everything was going according to his plan. It was time for him to take it a step further.  Pretending to be scratching his leg under the table, he reached for his boot to pluck the message out of it. Then, without a warning, he slipped his hand under Michele’s tunic and pressed the piece of paper to the inside of her knee. She stiffened and her eyes widened with shock since Anders was touching her between her legs. She let out an indignant growl that made all the heads turn toward them. She threw the Aklànder a murderous look that would usually be enough to scare most men.

His fingers, however, were not touching her skin directly: the folded paper was in between. He still gave her a lewd smile as he made the piece of paper go up her inner thigh.

At first, she looked like she was about to hit him. But she could feel the rough sensation of paper on her thigh. Anders knew she had understood he was trying to pass her a message. But she still decided to give him a piece of her mind. She stood up and slapped him for good measure.

Anders had to let go of his piece of paper between her legs and he backed off. She bellowed a good selection of profanities in all the languages she mastered and she stormed out of the room.

The other males around the table burst in a concert of salacious laughter. Even Borean, despite his previous demonstration of possessiveness, did not seem bothered by the fact Anders had tried to paw one of his numerous wives in front of him. Anders faked to join them in hilarity, but he threw an anxious look to Michele’s chair. It was empty. The message was gone. All he could hope was that it had left the room, safely tucked inside one of the healer’s angry fists.

Anders allowed himself a last drink to numb the sting of his throbbing cheek where the mark of Michele’s fingers would remain for a few hours. Then, he announced to Herrick that he was to return to his husband, which permission was granted to him.

 

***

The room was silent and the bed filled with one tall, sleeping form.

Anders shrugged his coat off on the chair in the corner. He emptied his pockets of the dried fruits he had stashed there and put them into the empty mug on the floor.

The lone candle was alight on the candlestick. It cast wavering shadows on the walls, like faceless giants, probably like those who haunted John’s nightmares.

Anders expected to find his husband in an agitated, restless sleep again. But when he got closer to the bed, John seemed peaceful. Salty traces of tears had dried on his face, but a small smile still tugged on his lips. Anders stood at the side of the bed to watch him sleep a little longer. John’s black lashes on the pale skin of his cheek was like the reversed image of conifers at the top of a hill, when the sun rises and their dark shapes contrast with the paleness of the morning sky. Anders understood now why during his travel in the hills, he had always found reassuring the vision of sun rising through the pine trees.

Even bruised and scrawny, Anders still found his husband… beautiful. Yes, there was no other word to describe that feeling of sudden, overwhelming awe.  The word “beautiful” was one Anders had always hesitated to associate with men. Sure, he was attracted to them: an animalistic pull that arose from his guts and manifested itself in a pleasant tightness in the groin. But never before he met John had Anders paid any attention to one of his congeners’ beauty.

The sickness had made John look almost ethereal, more delicate than the broad-shouldered warrior Anders had married, but still, he was undoubtedly drawn to him.

John opened his eyes slowly, and the small smile he sported during his sleep grew wider when he saw his husband. The spontaneous smile bared that slightly crooked tooth at the front that made him look like an impish little boy sometimes. But John’s loving gaze was full of desire, like an outstretched hand inviting Anders closer to his skin and his mouth. Anders felt the exact same way as when he had let the sun warm his face, earlier on the castle’s walls. See his spouse give him his first honest smile in a long time was like waking up from the winter’s cold to find out that the sun still existed. But it was a brief impression, like a single ray of light through dark clouds. As John took in his surroundings, his smile faltered and then faded as did the warmth that had lightened his eyes seconds ago. The brunet’s expression was forlorn again when Anders sat on the bed.  

“I dreamt of Brastàl,” John confided in a sorrowful whisper.  “For a second, I thought we were back there; that all this mayhem had never happened.”

The words failed Anders. He sighed and looked away, out of the window. The world outside was just a compact mass of blackness, but he found it more bearable than having to look into the darkness that was in his husband’s eyes.

Most of their time together, before the war, John had been steadfast and secure in himself. There sure had probably been times of worry back then - the election had been one, and Anders had also given other motives for his husband to be concerned. But despite that, the young man had always shown he knew who he was. Now though, John was in pieces: broken… dismantled.

A part of Anders wished he could flee far away from John’s melancholy; be rid of this situation that forced him to act with compassion toward the other man and make himself vulnerable in the process. But to be completely fair, the reason why Anders was not leaving did not have much to do with the locked door, the guards or even Herrick. It was beyond his strength to comfort John, but the idea of abandoning his spouse was just as inconceivable. He was condemned to stay there, hold on and fight. He had been right to think marriage was a trap. There was no trap more efficient than one that makes its captive do everything they could to keep it intact.

John’s fingertips brushed clumsily over Anders’ hand that rested on the mattress, as if he wasn’t sure how to touch him anymore. “I want to go home, Anders. I want to bring you home with me,” John dreamed out loud. “We would groom our horses together and take long walks in the garden.”

Anders looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed in an incredulous expression. “Like old people?”

“Yes, exactly like old people,” John emphasized. “I think I envy them now.”

“Ew, no! Don’t say that!” Anders protested. “Why would anybody want to be like an old person?”

“I do,” John admitted. “Because I want some peace and quiet… and some more time to spend with you.” His expression hardened suddenly. “But I have no right to ask for that. I have to pay for my mistakes.” A tremor crossed John’s body as his self-loathing took over. “Gods, Anders. Life was good to me. Why did I have to spoil it all?”   

“I can hardly see how this is your fault,” Anders argued, trying to contain the storm he could see forming in the air that vibrated around his partner.

But it was too late. John was furious now. He sat straight in the bed, irate eyes now at Anders’ level. “Yes it is! It’s all my fault!” he growled. “Don’t you understand?”

Anders gave him a weary look. “No. You’re right: I don’t understand. Let’s sleep now, alright?” he decided. “I’m feeling tired.” The tipsy state that was still agreeable when he had left the great hall now only left him with a dull pain between the temples.

He turned away to take off his boots and shoved them under the bed. He was not sure what was the right way to deal with his husband’s unpredictable mood swings, but ignore them was all he could do for now.

“I’m sorry, ” John apologized, his voice softer as he settled down on the mattress again. “I’m tired too.”  

When Anders looked at him again, his outburst of temper seemed to have left the younger man exhausted.

“Come here,” John offered, moving back to make some space on the bed and opening his arms.

Without a word, the blond man joined his husband under the wool blanket and nested his smaller frame into John’s embrace.

The candle drank its last drops of molten wax and extinguished with a quiet ‘pfft’. The room was submerged in darkness.

The brunet yawned, blowing air to the back of his neck and Anders closed his eyes. John’s body had already warmed up the mattress. He allowed himself to empty his mind as he relaxed in the welcoming patch of heat. The rising and falling of John’s chest against the blond man’s back was like the ocean tide and Anders was a boat being rocked by the slow waves. He could not resist the surge that gently pushed him into slumber.

“Anders, I have something to tell you…”

“You don’t have to. It can wait until tomorrow.”

Anders fell asleep, dreaming of long walks in the shade of young pine trees.

 

***

Anders would not get to know what John wanted to tell him, because he would leave his sleeping husband’s arms at dawn, and tiptoe out of the room when the guard would open the door for him.

Just like John, the castle was still sleeping at this hour. There were guards on the battlements as well, but fortunately, they did not pay any attention to Anders and neither did they see him sneak into the private temple.

Once there, Anders purified his hands in the almost drained fountain, out of habit more than by true conviction. He was not there to pray. He was there to implore a being that was far more uncompromising than any of the spirits, probably even with the spirit of death included.

He hoped she would come. She had to come.

He stepped back into the shadows behind a column when one of the doors opened with a creaking noise, in case it was not who he was waiting for.  

Michele’s keen eyes spotted him instantly as she came in. “If you attracted me here to grope me again; it’s not going to happen,” she warned him. “Unless you and your balls don’t mind being separated.”

“I think I groped you enough for at least a lifetime,” he replied,  stepping into the light that came in by the opening in the middle of the dome roof. “Did you tell anyone about my message?”

“No.”

“And you made sure nobody followed you?” he insisted.  

‘Yes,” she assured him. “What is this about, Mitchell?” The tone was snappy and restless.

Unimpressed, Anders had a smug smile plastered on his face. “You are intrigued, are you?” She had followed his instructions and showed up at the right time. His success gave Anders a feeling of power he wanted to relish in for a bit.

She glowered at him. “Spit it out. Both my time and my patience are limited.”

He pinched his lips together. He realized with a little disappointment that he would have to tone down the cockiness if he wanted to achieve his goal. “Who is your tutelary spirit?” he asked her.

The question seemed to take her aback a little, but the answer came soon enough, confident and clear, like a text learnt by heart. “I worship Taranis and Wotan. I stopped praying the spirits when I left the North Hills.”

“I’m born under Braìg and John under Väm,” Anders told her, as if he did not really take her answer into consideration. “My older brother Mikkel is born under Ül, the spirit of the hunt. Which one is yours?”

She crossed her arms with a wary scowl. “You surely didn’t make me come here to ask about my birthweek.”

Anders already knew the answer to his own question, though. Despite her denial, the apple had betrayed her real attachment to her tutelary spirit.  “Your spirit is Rea, is that it?” he hinted.

Her lips parted in a surprised gasp. “How do you-” she started asking, but then her eyes shifted to Rea’s altar and she noticed that the offering was gone. “Oh,” she breathed.  

“The spirit of wind… interesting,” Anders pondered out loud. “The wind is powerful, no one can cage or tame it. It can be both soothing and dreadful.”

Michelle straightened her shoulders and nodded with pride.

“Funny how some people truly incarnate their tutelary spirit, don’t you think?” Anders commented. “Take my husband, for example. Everything about him is bound to blood: the one that runs in his veins is fiery and wild. There is no limit to the amount of it he is ready to shed or bleed for what he believes in. But you? Ah!” he scoffed.  “I don’t think your spirit suits you at all”

The play of her jaw muscles revealed how insulted she was. “How come?”

“Because you are tamed and caged, Michele. You let Herrick do that to you,” Anders replied. “What candy is he going to give you if you keep on being a good girl? Because I see now that what you told me when we were in the plains is utter bullshit. You are not the one being in charge: you are not working for yourself. Or maybe you like to think that and lie to yourself.”

Her face took a dangerous shade of red. “What are you trying to do exactly?” she hissed. She did not like what she heard, but that was exactly what he wanted.

Anders cocked his head to the side. “I’m asking you if you’re sure you’re on the right side.”

Her hand grasped her healing stick so tightly her knuckles turned pale.  “If you know things that I don’t, you better tell me now.”

“I do, actually,” he admitted. “I know things that you don’t – things that Herrick and your nomad friends don’t know about either and that could change the outcome of this war.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are bluffing.”

“I’m not,” Anders stated with conviction. “And if you want that precious information, I want an answer in exchange. I’m awfully curious, you see. How did Herrick buy you? What is the carrot at the end of the stick, Michele?”

She had, in fact, nothing to lose by telling him. He was the one being prisoner. She seemed to realize that because she chose to answer. “The castle. Carraig castle will be mine once the war is over.” Her eyes had a vengeful gleam. “Before I was taken away by the Nomads, Lord Ferguson deprived my family of everything. He forced us to live in poverty. Now I get to have what is rightly mine.” She drilled her gaze into Anders’. “Now you tell me.”

“Do you know who Robert Duncan is?”

She squinted, trying to remember. “He’s one of the clan chieftains, is he?”

“Yes,” Anders confirmed. “But now he is also much more than that since he proclaimed himself Great Lord of the North Hills. Brastàl is his and the clans are gathering under his command,” the Aklànder told a visibly surprised Michele.

In fact, Anders had no idea if Duncan had managed to get other clans than the MacCallums and the MacGregors to be on his side, but the truth didn’t really matter. He had to make Duncan appear very threatening.

“This conquest won’t be as easy as Herrick thinks,” he went on. “Duncan will be prepared. Now they know against what they are fighting. They probably had the time to replicate your weapons. Contrary to Herrick, they know the country. By the time he is ready to march on Brastàl, Duncan will have time to gather soldiers again. This time, the fact you are outnumbered will show. What will happen then if the wind turns and the North Hillers win, huh? Have you ever thought about that possibility? What would be your options, then: if you survive, I mean, because Robert Duncan isn’t John Mitchell. He has no mercy. Killing women is not a problem for him. So, if you are still alive and the NorthHillers win, you go back to being a nomad girl, eat raw horse and be one of Borean’s little wifeys? Or maybe you prefer going to the Norse island and get buried under volcanic ashes. Herrick has no respect for his allies, and he probably doesn’t have much for you either. He does not seem to be the kind of man who wants to share his power. How can you be sure he’s going to honor his promises? At best, you get your castle but go on being one of his pawns. At worst, he gets rid of you once you’re not useful anymore. Is this really what you want?”

Michele could not stay stoic as she listened to Anders. She was like a cat on hot bricks. She shifted her weight from a leg to the other, looking around nervously. His words had a deeper effect on her than she was willing to show. Her voice was taut when she asked: “What do you want from me?”

He was not going to beat around the bush any longer. “Help us escape.”

Michele’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “Why would I do that?”

“To cover your back by having people vouching for you on both sides,” Anders supplied. “If the North Hills were to win this war, I would ensure that no harm would be done to you, but also that you’d be generously rewarded for your heroic gesture of freeing us. If you want a castle, I can give you one.”

She snorted. “I doubt you have enough influence to make such offer. Your husband is no longer Great Lord. You told me yourself.”

“That’s true,” Anders conceded, determined not to let it shake him, “but my older brother is the chieftain of the richest clan in the North Hills. I’m sure you’d love him, by the way. He would be a better marriage match for you than your big nomad bear of a man.”

“I’m not interested in marrying your brother. I won’t be any man’s possession,” she rejected the idea with disdain.  

“But you rather be Herrick’s puppet and Borean’s hen? And, believe me, it pains me to have to say that, but Mikkel is way better looking than both of them.”  

The more their conversation went on, the more agitated she grew. “Do you know what Herrick would do to me if he learnt that I even agreed to have this conversation with you?”  

“No. I don’t. What would he do?” Anders inquired innocently.

“You saw what he did to your husband.”

“And you really want to stick with that guy?”

This time Michele did not find anything to retort. She only stared at him, jawline so tense its muscles twitched under the pressure. He could see the doubts he had planted in her head grow stronger. He had now to let them flourish to their full potential. The healer’s collaboration would soon be ready to harvest, if Anders found the right words.

“You are not like Herrick,” Anders said, softer. “You want people to think you are like him: an opportunist with a cold heart, but I know it’s not quite true. Maybe you only healed John so Herrick could use him to manipulate me, but nobody asked you to pass on his message to me when we were on the bank of the loch. You still made sure I would get the food plate with the piece of paper at the bottom. I’m sure it was you. He wouldn’t have been able to do that without help: and you had nothing to win from that gesture. On the contrary, you should hate him since he was the one who defeated the Nomads on the battlefield so many times before. But you don’t.”

Once again, Michele didn’t utter a single sound. She avoided looking his way and stared at the floor instead.

He took a step closer to where she was standing.  “It may be hard to see, but there is some compassion in you and a desire to help people. And I need help: your help. You seem to have more respect for John than you have for me, so do it for him if you will.”

Maybe because she was afraid, maybe because she really hated needy people after all, or just because she plainly hated Anders, but Michele turned on her heels and headed to one of the four exits.

He hurried and caught her arm before she could put her hand on the door handle.

“All I need is a diversion,” he insisted, “anything to set chaos in the castle and give us a chance to escape. And I need a weapon: a dagger or something. ”

“Let go of me.”

It was an order: that bit was clear, but he sensed she was perturbed rather than angry.

He let her go.

Once the door was closed and the temple silent again, Anders leant back against the wall and decided to bask in that much needed quietness a little longer. He had kissed Michele’s arse so hard the temple’s fountain’s water would probably not be enough to cleanse his mouth. And despite his efforts, he did not know if he had won or failed.

***

 

“I have the distinct feeling you are lying to me, Anders. I thought you and I had an agreement.”

Herrick was less than happy and Anders cursed himself. To his defense, he was under a lot of pressure.

As soon as Herrick had summoned him to the great hall, Anders broke out in cold sweat. Michele was also there when Anders had answered Herrick’s call. If she had blabbed about their conversation, he was no better than dead, and John with him.

If Herrick was aware about his attempt to get the healer to help them escape, he did not show it. But Anders still had his heart in his mouth, because this could well be a device.

Herrick asked him very precise questions about Brastàl’s city defense and the geography of the city’s surroundings. Anders had a very hard time keeping his head cool enough to lie properly when Herrick asked him if he knew another way to get in the castle: a concealed one.

Anders had stayed silent for the span of a hundred frantic heartbeats, twisting his sweaty fingers as his mind forgot that just saying “no” was the best way to get out of this. Herrick expression had gotten even more distrustful as the Aklànder stayed mute.

That’s when he had accused Anders of dishonesty. Then, Herrick had exchanged a few words with Ivan and Daisy and dismissed them from the room.

That was not a good sign.

The knowledge of the passage leading from Castle Brastàl’s supply room to the well in the woods was the only guarantee of Lady Ann and Annie’s safety. That secret was one Anders never intended to betray, but Herrick snake eyes were fixed on him and he was the mouse. Anders bit his tongue, drawing a few drops of blood.

Michele was standing by, ready to translate any technical information of Anders’ avowal Herrick would be unable to decipher by himself. Her eyes on Anders held a great amount of pity, but not one inspired by any good sentiments. She was quiet, only speaking when asked, but she knew enough about him and his intentions now to have his head on a platter with less than five words if she wanted.  

Herrick sat on the edge of the table, his gaze never leaving Anders. “I do not like to be lied to,” he told him with a calm voice.

Anders gulped around the lump in his throat, feeling a stiff noose of fear tightening around his neck.

There were forceful knocks on the door and Herrick ordered to whomever was there to come in.

Anders’ heart skipped a beat when he saw Daisy and Ivan bring John in, hustling him forward before making him kneel on the floor.

“Why did you bring him here?”  Anders groaned, turning around to give Herrick a glare.

“We had a deal. You were to help me invade Brastàl,” Herrick admonished him. “But you do not seem to remember. So I thought perhaps you needed to be reminded of what you still have to lose.”

Anders looked back at his husband.  The hazel eyes found his, and they were more resigned than pleading.

“Do you know how difficult it had been to convince the Nomads not to sacrifice him?” the Norse leader asked Anders. “They still insist on getting him back. They are convinced that because he endured torture with such courage, and since he had wedded and bedded one of our deities, his blood has some kind of magic, therapeutic powers and that his sacrifice would be especially pleasing to their filthy god. I hope you understand in what difficult position our agreement puts me. Nomads are brainless and primitive, but I still need them.”

Michele was standing behind Herrick, so only Anders got to see how her whole body stiffened at those harsh words.

“So, if you want me to keep on protecting your spouse,” Herrick went on, “you better fulfill your part of the deal and tell me if there is a secret passage to that castle that you fail to tell me about yet.”

Anders was foaming at the mouth, ready to bite Herrick’s face off. But instead, he did his best to steady his heavy breathing and lie in an unswerving voice. “There is no such thing,” he declared.  

Herrick walked past Anders and to John who seemed distressed now that he had understood what the subject of this interrogatory was.

“Are you sure there is no such thing?” the Norseman asked.

Anders did not like to see him so close to his husband, but he had to play his role until the curtain fell, so he nodded.

Herrick grabbed a handful of dark curls and viciously pulled John’s head back to expose his throat and face.

“Look at him,” Herrick spat. There was no pretend kindness in his demeanour anymore. Herrick’s face was crimson, with veins throbbing at the temples and his eyes injected with blood. “Look at your lover, Anders.”

And Anders did look, in horror.

“Look at the man who proved that he would be ready to die for you! His pretty face had just started to heal. That would be a real shame if I had to hurt him some more.”

“Don’t.touch.him,” Anders ordered, detaching every word  in a clear threat. But Ivan had already motioned to make him keep his distance.

Herrick tugged on the dark mane with even more cruelty. A grunt escaped the young man’s lips.

“Answer the question!” Herrick barked.

“Get your fucking hands off him!!” Anders gave back in the same tone, at his wit’s end. “I told you: there is no tunnel!!!”

Herrick let go of John. All the aggressive tension left his shoulders at once and a smirk appeared on his lips. His voice was composed again when he said: “A tunnel, then… That is interesting.”

The realization that he had betrayed himself by mistake was for Anders like icy water pouring down his back. He was so scared for John that he had not thought before speaking. He wondered since when he allowed anybody to become his weak point. Comparing John to a fracture that never healed well was probably not a good thing, but that’s what he was: something that made Anders easy to break. It was too late anyway. He could not go back in time to either take back what he had just said or to prevent John from becoming his weakness.

Herrick pointed at the table where a parchment, a feather pen and a bottle of ink were waiting for Anders’ last act of surrender. “Draw a plan of it for me, will you?”

The Aklànder hesitated.

“Anders… I’m not worth it, please, don’t do it…,” John begged his consort, his eyes half-hidden behind dark curls.

John let out a cry of surprise and pain when Herrick crushed the wrist of his left hand to the floor, under his boot. The young man tried to struggle, but without fingers on his free hand, he was powerless to escape. Herrick took the sword of the Great Lords out of its sheath.

“I SWEAR IF YOU HURT HIM I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU DISGUSTING FUCKER!!!,” Anders roared, charging the Norse leader. He was stopped halfway by Ivan’s arm and battle axe.   

“I do not know what it means,” Herrick commented, “but I am sure it is not very polite.” John’s unprotected fingers were sprawled on the carpet and his hand caught under Herrick boots. The Norseman traced a line over John’s knuckles with the tip of the sharp sword, enough to cut the skin slightly. John did not even flinch when the blood started spilling. His distraught gaze was focused on his husband.

“The drawing, Anders…” Herrick reminded him.

John shook his head, a silent effort to deter Anders from obeying.

Herrick lifted the sword, ready to hammer it down on John’s fingers.

The words spilled out on their own accord: in a half-strangled squeal from Anders’ throat. “NO! STOP! NO! I’m going to draw that map!” Anders stepped back until he was next to the table and he took the feather pen between his trembling fingers. “Here! Look! I’m drawing it!!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Herrick smiled. “I am glad to see you came to your senses.” He still kept his sword drawn as he waited. Anders did his best to trace the lines and forms that would figure the well in the woods, next to castle Brastàl’s archery field.

That’s only when he was done and that Ivan had taken the drawing and brought it to Herrick’s examination, that Anders noticed that Michele had left the room.

Herrick scanned the parchment with a satisfied hum. He released John’s wrist and walked back to the table.

Anders rushed to his husband to help him up.  

“You shouldn’t have done that,” John whispered when he was back on his feet. His tone was not one of reproach so much as regret.  

“I know,” Anders replied. He took his neckerchief from around his neck and wrapped it around John’s bleeding fingers. “But you would’ve done the same for me.”

“In a heartbeat.”

Herrick distractedly ordered something to Ivan and Daisy who immediately proceeded to drag John away.

Anders snapped his head around to address Herrick. “What are they going to do to him?”

“Nothing,” the older man waved it off, as if Anders’ concern was futile. “But do not give me reasons to change my mind.”

 

***

Herrick asked him a few precisions about the drawing and Anders gave them, albeit reluctantly. Then, Herrick kept Anders in the great hall with him all day long and until sundown for no apparent purpose other than to keep an eye on him. Anders stayed on edge until Herrick chose to finally dismiss him. When Herrick summoned Seth to escort Anders back to the servants’ quarters, it was like the Aklànder had held his breath for hours, but when he finally passed the little room’s threshold and saw John standing by the window, alive and as well as he could be, he started breathing again. The frown on the nobleman’s face, however, and his uptight and apprehensive expression, told Anders that something must have happened while he was away.

After the guards had searched Anders and locked the door, he opened his mouth to ask, but John placed a finger before pursed lips as a silent indication to stay quiet. The brunet threw a glance through the door’s window, making sure Seth was gone and the guards were back at their table further down the corridor. Once he was sure it was safe to do so, John lifted the corner of the bed’s mattress and plunged his hand inside a hole in the fabric to search for something concealed inside the raw wool stuffing.  He retrieved a slender object and showed it to Anders under the light of the single candle: a small, but sharp and pointy dagger.

Anders’ heartbeat sped up as a shaky exaltation seized him. _“She did it,”_ Anders marvelled.

“It’s Michele,” John explained in a hushed tone. “She gave me a dagger she managed to sneak into the room. She had a ceramic wine jug in her basket when she came to tend to my wound. The dagger was hidden inside. The guard saw the wine, but never thought of looking into the liquid. She is a clever one.”

“A bit too much, if you ask me,” Anders remarked. “What did she tell you?”

John hastened to hide the dagger back inside the mattress and sat on the bed. “She told me it’s going to happen tonight and that you would know what she means.”

Anders set his jaw bravely. ”I know what she means.”

John kept on staring at him from below, quizzical and waiting for an explanation.  

“It means you should take a nap and gather your strengths,” Anders replied, “because tonight there will be action.” The steadfast gleam in the hazel eyes led him to believe that John had caught the implications of that advice.

Anders had no idea what Michele was planning to do to create the diversion he was hoping for. All he could do was wait and see and he knew the waiting would kill him.

An hour passed with discouraging slowness. Anders attempted to cure his restlessness by standing at the window side and watch the first visible star light up in the night sky. This winter end was a dry one and the night was going to be another cold, cloudless one. When Anders was still a wee boy, his nursemaid used to say that the wish made on the first star was meant to come true during the same night. He had always considered this kind of stories to be nothing but women ravings. But tonight, as he set his eyes on that star, he wished for freedom, and if Selit was listening, he would take the spirit’s aid, and whoever else would want to give a hand.

John’s soft voice interrupted his skeptical prayers.

“My dear?”

The brunet had clearly no intention to sleep, and Anders could not blame him.

“Aye?” Anders replied, his gaze still aimed at the sole star; that flimsy little light above the horizon.

“How did they react: my mother and Annie, when they learnt I had fallen captive of the enemy?”

Anders took a moment to think before he answered. “They were devastated, of course. Annie couldn’t stop crying and your mother…” he trailed off. Revisiting those memories was nothing pleasant. “She was very distressed. She stayed brave despite everything, but it was obvious her world had suddenly crumbled down before her eyes. And George: I don’t think I had ever seen him so pale and helpless as when he had to tell me the news.”

“And you?”

Anders expected that question and opted for an evasive “Hm?”

But John insisted. “You? How did you react?”

“Me?”

‘Yes, you, precisely.”

When it was about his mother and his friends, Anders had sensed their despair was a cause of grief for John. But now that it was about him, there was eagerness in the Brastaler’s undertone.

“If I answer that question, what tells you I won’t just say what you want to hear?”

“What do you think I want to hear?” John asked.

“That I had never experienced such depths in despair, that my life had lost any substance, that my soul was a void and that I couldn’t accept the idea that I would never see you again,” Anders enumerated in one breath, still not daring to look at his husband.  

“Yes, perhaps that’s selfishly what I would want you to say,” John admitted, guilty. “But I’d like to know the truth.”

“Well, in that case, you must know I hate having to repeat myself.”

Anders made sure it sounded final. He had answered the question without answering it and it was as far as he was willing to go. That was all he had to offer. Anders was ready to close up like an oyster in its shell if his husband asked more questions. But John had the presence of mind not to push him.

The Aklànder heard some rustling and shuffling behind his back and he figured out his husband had taken his advice seriously and had gone to bed.

Maybe Anders should have opened up and let his husband know just how intolerable he had found the idea of losing him, but he thought that he did not have to do it now, because they were going to escape tonight and they would both survive it anyway. There would still be time for confessions afterwards.

One would deem it absurd that he had waited all winter long to tell John about his feelings, and now that he was with him at last, now that he had the opportunity and that it was exactly what John needed the most, it was more difficult than ever and he found himself unable to express himself.

He was under the impression that if he said the words, it would be like reaching a final point. What could happen past that point was too scary and unfathomable. In a way, staying quiet was a guarantee John would make it, because he could not die before knowing what he meant to him. That was Anders’ own way of being superstitious.

Someone had lightened a fire on the bank of the loch, Anders observed from his viewpoint. This would not have been unusual or alarming in itself, but then, he noticed that the fire was gaining in intensity and that the flames reflected on the loch in a way that it could only have this effect if the fire was over the water, which did not make any sense unless…

His heart started hammering in his chest again. One of the Norsemen’s precious boats was on fire.

That was the diversion.

He immediately walked to the bed to wake John, but the young man had already been up, next to the door, spying on the Norse guards in the corridor, his unharmed hand clenched around the grip of the dagger.  

“Take the mattress off the bed and kill the light,” John told him in an urgent whisper. He had something in mind, which made Anders both reassured and hesitant.

He obeyed without questions: pulled the mattress off the wooden bedframe and blew the candle. Anders could hear orders being yelled in the castle, the foreign words echoing all the way to their room. Their guards had gotten agitated as well as they started to wonder what was going on. The muffled sound of a battle horn outside the castle prompted Anders to step closer to his husband.

He had to give some credit to Michele’s plan. He had no idea how she had managed to set fire to that boat, but it was working. “They think they’re being attacked,” the blond man murmured.

“Yes, which is good for us, but we have to get out of here before they realize they’re not,” John replied as he kept an eye on the two guards outside their door. If only one of the Norsemen could leave: that would be their best chance.

John pulled his partner to his chest as they waited for what was to follow. So many things could go bad. Anders was shaking like a leaf and he was grateful for his husband’s arm around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to those who are still reading and commenting. I know the britchell fandom is losing a lot of its popularity, but I'm grateful for the readers I still have. 
> 
> I made another playlist for that universe that you can find here: http://8tracks.com/oursesolitaire/spring-in-the-north-hills
> 
> I was planning on posting it when I would start the "Spring" part of this story, but since I have no idea if I'll have the courage and motivation to write it once I get there, I decided to post the playlist now it's spring in the North hemisphere. Enjoy! :)


	14. The Fox’s Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In that chaos of screams, neighs, fire and smoke, Anders was desperately searching for his husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my muse and friend, the lovely katyushha who also proofreads this story.  
> And, as usual, the VERY amazing art is provided by Dragon4488 who is always happy to get your comments as well.

The two guards in the corridor stood up from their chairs, alerted, but they had not moved yet and were still both there, exchanging short sentences in a hushed tone.

Anders felt trapped: now more than ever. This was their only chance to escape: if they blew it, there was not going to be another one. “Why didn’t they piss off already? Why are they still there?” he murmured between gritted teeth. “We’ll never be able to get out!” He was starting to get short-winded from trepidation, on the verge of a panic attack. That was the last thing they needed.

John’s arm went up and down his back and held tighter. “Shhhh. Breathe,” he whispered in the dark. “You can’t change the circumstances, just make the best of them and for that, you have to keep your head cool,” added, a little firmer.

Anders inhaled deeply, but the exhale came out shaky and unsteady.

John had turned his head to the side, still monitoring the guards’ moves. “They’re waiting for orders,” he figured out, and just as he said those words a third Norseman appeared from around the corner.  

After a rushed discussion, two of them left, leaving the one who had the keys alone to watch the prisoners.

It was now the time to act.

Anders’ fingers closed around the one of John’s fists that held the dagger. He had been worried that Herrick might have broken or sprained John’s wrist with his boot earlier, but the strength of his grip told otherwise. “Give it to me.”

 “Why?”

“I’m going to show him the dagger,” Anders explained quickly. “He’ll have no choice but to come in and confiscate it. He is going to have to open the door for that.”

“No. That’s not a good idea,” John objected, in a commanding tone in which Anders recognized the warlord of Brastàl. “If he sees we are armed, he won’t take the chance of coming in alone. He’ll just wait for his colleague to come back. He has to think we’re inoffensive.”

“What do we do, then? Because whatever you have in mind, we have to do it now,” the Aklànder pressed him. He had a shiver when, suddenly, he lost the contact of his husband’s body against his. John crouched down to put the dagger to the ground silently and he walked to the bed.

Anders watched him, perplexed.

John lifted the piece of furniture and overthrew it without ceremony. Once the bed was on its side he pushed until only a few steps separated it from the door. “Now, we break the door down. Help me,” he ordered as he aligned his shoulder with the foot of the bed, ready to use it as a battering ram.

 

Anders gave him a hand, and, with their strengths combined, they made the bed slide on the floor and collide with the door in a heavy bang. Anders couldn’t tell if the cracking noise he heard in the process had come from the door or the bed frame.

“Hvað ertu að gera þarna!?!” the guard shouted from the other end of the corridor.  

 “Again,” John instructed.

They pulled the bed back to its previous position and pushed it to the door. The door held good. Too good.

“I’m not sure it’s going to work,” Anders remarked, his breath short with anxiousness.

“It doesn’t matter,” John gave back, enjoining his spouse to help him repeat the process. 

“Stöðva það núna!!” The guard yelled. The couple did not have to speak the Norse language to know that he ordered them to stop.

Anders rolled his shoulders: this was tough and painful. But John would not let him have a moment of weakness. He grabbed the blond man’s wrist and put his hand flat against the bed. “Hold on, Anders,” he encouraged him. “Ready? One, two, three.” With a groan they thrust the bed to their target once more.

“Hættu eða ég að koma inn og þú munt sjá eftir því!!” the guard threatened. He had had enough it seemed, because he was now walking to the door.

“He’s coming,” Anders told his husband with a nervous edge in his voice.

A few stray curls had fallen on John’s forehead and in the flickering light coming from outside the room, his eyes glowed in a dangerous manner. “Yes,” he panted. “Let him come.” He pulled the bed back and looked at Anders. “One last time.”  

Anders obeyed his insistent behest. This time, when the bed hit the door, an audible protest came from the lock.

The guard barked a few words and receded to the table at the end of the corridor. When he came back, this time he had his helmet on and his sword drawn.

John hastened to pull the bed away as if they were about to use it again to smash the door.

When he heard the guard fumbling with the keys, Anders’ legs started shaking. But once again, John was there to keep him focused.

“When he comes in,” John asked him, a barely audible whisper into his ear, “I want you to step back and attract his attention.”

The Aklànder nodded. John moved away and disappeared from his sight in the darkness along the wall.

The door opened and the Norseman stepped in. “Þú ert að fara að halda ró, eða ég ætla að gera þig!” he growled, pointing his sword at Anders who took a few steps back.

“Yes, that’s it. Come and get me, fucker,” he insulted the guard.

The guard took a step toward Anders, but it would be the last thing he’d ever do. As swift as a wind gust, a tall, lean shadow had sneaked behind the guard. For an unknown, and he realized, quite naive reason, Anders thought John would only threaten the guard with the dagger. The man’s helmet fell off his head, rolled on the floor and bumped to Anders’ feet. The Norseman staggered for a few steps, and fell on his knees into the ray of light coming from the ajar door. The warrior’s throat had been methodically and expertly torn open to prevent him from screaming.

Of course, Anders had seen people die before, from natural causes, but it was the first time he witnessed a murder. The Aklànder had always knew what John was capable of, even before he married him, but seeing it, in all its brutality, was something else entirely.

_“Anders!” A voice, far away, urges him to kick his feet and swim back to the surface. But Anders can’t stop watching the horrifying spectacle. The Norseman’s sliced throat: a gaping wound like a second pair of lips: opened in a silent cry and vomiting blood. And the Norseman’s fingers: soiled with red, sticky liquid, trying in vain to contain the flow. His eyes: wide open, distressed, pleading for help Anders can’t give. It’s too late for him. Anders feels weak and cold all of a sudden. He is going to fall._

_“Anders!!!”_

_The voice in his ear shouts now, too close, too loud. A large hand cups his face; forces him to tear his gaze away._

“ANDERS!” John yelled again. His hand on the Aklànder’s cheek forbade him to look back at the dying man, but forced him to focus on the hazel eyes instead. “Stay with me, Anders,” John ordered. “You can’t let your body give up now. We have to run.”

The words were like the flogging of a whip. Blood started to run into Anders’ veins again and gave him a sudden rush of energy.

John’s hand left his face in order to grab his shoulder. “I’m going to have to finish the guard off and I don’t want you to look. But you are going to put the bed back in its place and put the mattress on it,” he said, all the urgency of the situation packed between each syllable. “Can you do that for me? Quick!?”

Anders swallowed with an audible click and obeyed. He turned away from John and the guard to push the bed back to its right position along the wall. He fetched the mattress and the blanket he had left in a corner of the room earlier.

When he turned around, John had somehow managed to divest the dead body from its ring mail and to put it on himself. The Norse armor was long enough to hide John’s outfit and his kilt. The young man was now struggling with the belt. 

Anders stepped over the corpse to help his husband. He managed to secure the belt, the battle axe and the sword sheath in place despite his shaking hands. John gave him the dagger and the blond man hid it inside his coat by piercing a hole in the lining.

Then, Anders grabbed his thick cloak on the chair and put it on.

John had taken the sword from the soldier’s hand and slipped it into the sheath. He tucked his dark curls into the helmet. The headgear concealed the contour of his eyes and the line of his nose, leaving the lower part of his face uncovered but in shadows. Someone who didn’t look too closely could believe he was one of the Norse warriors.

John dragged the dead Norseman by the leg closer to the bed. “Help me put the body on the bed, then we are out of here, I promise,” he told Anders. 

 Trying his best not to think about the fact he was manipulating a cadaver, Anders helped his spouse lift the heavy weight and drop it on the bed. John covered the body with the blanket, as if there was still someone sleeping there. If the other guard came back any time soon, that stratagem could indeed give them additional time to get away before their keepers would realize they were gone.

They left the room and the brunet locked it back with the keys.

As John went down the corridor and looked around the corner to see if the coast was clear, Anders hid the keys inside his coat.

The shouting and the running footsteps on the upper floors told them that they would not be able to reach the courtyard unseen, but with John disguised as a Norse warrior, they could always pretend he was moving Anders, as a prisoner, to another location. As long as they did not get face to face with Herrick, Ivan or Daisy : that could work.

John took the sword with his left hand and placed the bandaged one on Anders’ back.  They climbed the stairs that way, with John pretending to grab his coat and force him to walk.

The blond man’s heart was thumping fast to the point of making him nauseous when they crossed path with three Nomad warriors on the first floor. But the men barely gave them a look.

After that encounter, Anders did not have the time to calm down. A Norseman carrying a torch was walking straight in their direction.

The blond man’s stomach took a flip when the man stopped dead in his tracks in front of John. Anders prayed the man would not notice the blood stains on John’s armor. 

The man gave John a series of orders in the Norse language.

Neither of the two North-Hillers could understand, but John gave a quick nod, and somehow, this reaction seemed to be satisfying enough for the Norseman who added a few words before he left them there and walked away in haste.

Anders was still quaking in his boots when they finally reached the door and got to hide in the shadows along the castle wall outside. “I’m going to have a heart attack,” he complained.

“You are not allowed to have one just yet,” John deadpanned as he scanned the courtyard.

 The place was swarming with armed men, getting ready to defend a castle that was not under any real attack. For now, their attention was drawn to the loch where they thought the threat was coming, and not that much on what was happening within their own walls.

Anders took a deep breath. “We have to find a way to reach the North gate,” he pointed out. He remembered from his previous exploration that the East wall had no exit, and since the enemies thought they were attacked from the loch, they would keep a good eye on the crumbled ones facing the water.

“We can’t leave now,” John decided, his eyes shining with a renewed determination. “The swords and the shield of the Great Lords: we have to get them back.”

“Are you kidding me!?” Anders whisper-shouted. “Herrick has them. I’m not risking my life for shiny trinkets.”

“They are not trinkets,” John objected, clearly offended. “They’re sacred heirlooms. And you don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”

“Not a chance,” Anders grunted, pushing his husband back and pinning him to the wall. “You’re staying with me, you oaf. Is that clear?”  

The dark-haired man uttered a displeased sound and he looked like he was about to protest, but then surrendered. “Fine. But the North door is no longer an option.”

“What? Why are you saying that?”

“Because,” John began, taking Anders’ hand off his chest, “unless they are complete idiots, they closed it as soon as they sounded the alarm.”

“Oh shit,” Anders cursed. “That’s true. I didn’t think of that.”

“We have to try our luck with the West wall: pass through the breach, walk along the cliff and escape by the city.” 

“There are guards everywhere on that side,” the blond man pointed out. “How are we going to get passed them?”

“By dispersing them,” John explained, “and in order to do that, we have to create more diversion; set more chaos.”

“How?”

“We have to free the captive women. They are kept in the stables,” he informed Anders, pointing at the low, wooden building along the intact part of the west wall, about a hundred steps from where they were hiding. 

Anders’ eyebrows rose. “How do you know they’re there?” He had a hard time imagining how John could have had access to that information giving the fact he been locked up in the little room for most of their stay in Carraig castle.

“Michele told me.”

The Aklànder’s eyes widened even more. “Just like that?”  

“Aye. I just had to ask and she gave me the information.”

“Before or after she sucked your cock?”

 “If we don’t have time for the Great Lord’s sword, we have none for your jealousy,” John said. 

“I’m not jealous,” Anders protested. As he said those words, his heart made a frightened leap in his chest since John had just shoved him forward without a warning, out of the protective shadows that had hidden them from the Norse and nomad warriors’ sight until then.

John pushed his pretend prisoner toward the stables. Sometimes, confidence was the best of disguises, and beside John’s Norse armor and helmet, it was the only one at their disposal. They looked far less suspicious if they did not try to hide. It was somehow logical that since he thought that the castle was under attack, Herrick would require his men to gather all the prisoners in the same location. John’s energetic pace, as he drove Anders to the stables, led the other Norsemen to believe he was one of their own. Nobody tried to stop them, most of the warriors busy organizing the castle’s defense.

The stables had two doors. A large one for the horses, and another one of a smaller width. Just next to that narrow door, three crossbows had been left there on a rack, ready to be used: bolts already loaded in their mechanism.

Determined not to waste any time on explanations (that could still have been useful for Anders who had no idea what his partner had in mind), John made sure nobody was looking their way and he put his sword in the Aklànder’s hand to free his left one. Anders’ shoulder and arm sagged. It was way heavier than he thought.

John took one of the crossbows from the rack. The door of the barn was unlatched. He kicked it open. With a thrust of his shoulder and arm, he propelled Anders inside.

When he regained his balance, Anders froze on the spot. Too many startled gazes were on him: the one of the women, sardined along the barn’s walls, and also the one of the Norse guard who had been left there alone to watch the captives. The guard’s astonished look dropped to the sword Anders held in his hand.

« Hvað ertu að gera hér!? » he thundered.

“Uh…” was all Anders managed to utter.

 The man lifted his crossbow and aimed for Anders’ leg. He wanted to incapacitate him without actually killing him. Terrified, the blond man braced himself. He was a second away from having a bolt sink into the flesh of his thigh.

But instead of shooting, the Norseman took a step back, eyes wide from shock. A bolt was sticking out the base of his throat. There were a few scared exclamations among the women and one of the horses made a frightened neigh when the man tottered and collapsed, hitting the door of a box in his fall.

“Nice shot,” Anders congratulated his husband in a thin voice as John dropped the crossbow to the ground.

 “Thanks, my love,” John replied, catching his husband by the elbow when Anders’ knees buckled under his weight from relief.

Anders was not sure he would ever get used to seeing his lover kill people in cold blood, without batting an eyelash, but he had to admit it was an impressive shot for someone who was most probably using this foreign weapon for the first time in his life and couldn’t use his dominant hand.

John took his helmet off to tuck it under his right arm. Worried questions started being fired at him by the female captives who could not move from where they sat, their hands and feet tied with ropes.

John’s fingers trapped the ones of Anders’ hands that held the sword and squeezed to strengthen the blond man’s grip on the hilt. The brown eyes searched the blue ones. The eye contact steadied Anders’ racing heart a little, and when John asked him to free the captives from their bonds, he acquiesced and got on with the job.

“It’s Leath itself who sends you, Your Grace,” a woman said, her eyes filled with gratitude. He recognized the mother in the fancy dress. She still had her teenage daughter by her side. 

Anders did not answer as he cut the rope around her ankles with the blade. That someone associated him with the spirit of compassion was definitely a first. He was not exactly a paragon of virtue. During the last days, he had thought of saving his and John’s skins first and had not given that many thoughts to those women’s fate.

“’What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Annag, sir.”

 He searched in his coat and gave her the dagger. “Help the others, Annag,” he instructed. She proceeded to helping him until all the other women were free.

In the meantime, John had inspected the premise and cracked open one of the window shutters. He was observing what was going on in the courtyard outside with a concentrated frown when Anders walked up to him. “What do we do now?” he whispered, careful not to be heard by the others. “We won’t be able to get them all out. Some of them are going to be captured again.”

“I know that, Anders,” John replied briskly. “But nobody else is going to give them a chance to escape.” He turned away from his husband and addressed the women. “All of you: listen to me. There is a breach in the West wall. If you want to take your chance to escape, I think this is the best way. If you don’t: you can take refuge in the castle and wait for the Norse to take you again. It’s your choice.”

“Where are you going to go, my lord?” Annag asked.

“We are going to escape by the breach,” John answered.

She put an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “We’ll follow you, then,” she decided and several other captives agreed. The others seemed indecisive and scared.

John unlatched the horse boxes’ doors, asking the women to gather at the end of the stables to get out of the animals’ way. There was a dozen horses in the stables and they started to get agitated as if they could sense something was about to happen.

When John was done, he grabbed his husband by the nape of his neck and brought him closer. “As soon as the horses are outside, you make the women get out of the barn by the door we used to get in. We meet by the wall’s breach, alright?”

“Yes.”

John pressed a quick, nearly bruising kiss to his mouth. He let go of him in order to pick one of the three oil lanterns that lightened up the barn. He took two steps back and threw it on the hay loft. The lamp shattered. The dry hay caught fire instantly and the flames spread with dangerous speed.

Anders hastened to join the women and not stay in front of the boxes where the horses started to panic, prance and neigh.

John pushed the double-paneled door open and the sudden air draft made the already raging fire catch with even more fury. The space was now filled with smoke and Anders lost sight of John. The horses had gone crazy and rushed out of the stables. When the panicked horses barged in the courtyard under the eyes of the startled and helpless guards, Anders opened the small door at his end of the stables and the women ran out, coughing.

Not even watching if the women were following him or not, Anders hurried to the breach. 

The occupants of the castle were totally unprepared to face and control everything that was happening at once. Some of the Norse and nomad warriors attempted to catch the horses, but most of them were just trying not to get trampled.

Most of the warriors that guarded the breach of the West wall had climbed down the heap of tumbled stones to help with the horses, gone mad with fear. A group of nomad men had had the presence of mind to get to the well to draw water and try to stop the fire from ravaging more than just the barn. The Norsemen had also started to realize their human loot was running free and a couple of guards started chasing the women. One of the handmaidens who had stuck to Anders’ side was grasped by the waist by one of the Norsemen. She tried to kick and struggle, but he knocked her out and dragged her away.

In that chaos of screams, neighs, fire and smoke, Anders was desperately searching for his husband. His nails scraping the stone wall, Anders climbed to the breach, hoping that maybe, John was there already and that he was waiting for him on the other side of the wall. A sudden and powerful thrust made him lose balance and he fell on his stomach. The air was knocked out of his lungs. He lost his grip around his sword and the weapon feel in the rock at his side with a metallic clinking noise. 

He quickly rolled onto his back and the edge of a battle axe was placed across his throat. “No-o, please,” Anders blurted out, showing his hands in surrender to the Nomad man standing above. Anders did not know if the warrior intended to bring him back inside the castle or if he was going to execute him on the spot.

The man didn’t do any of those. Instead, he let out a groan of pain. He collapsed in the rumbles next to Anders and curled up there.

Annag was standing by with her daughter, her dark hair disheveled and face smeared with soot traces. She was still holding the dagger Anders had given her earlier, with which she had hit the Nomad man in the back of his neck. She and her daughter helped Anders up. A dozen women had already fled by the unguarded breach.

“Where’s His Highness?” Annag asked Anders.

“I don’t know!” Anders despaired. If John had put the helmet back on, he would be hard to recognize among the Norsemen.

Ten more women managed to reach the breach and get to the other side of the wall.

 _“I hope you did not go after that fancy sword and shield, you stubborn donkey,”_ Anders told his husband in mind, scanning the courtyard in a frenzied search for his dark-haired spouse.

Annag and her daughter seemed determined not to go without Anders, which made him both touched and annoyed.

A Norseman holding a battle axe appeared through the smoke and hurried toward Anders. The Aklànder lifted his sword, ready to fight when he noticed the man’s bandaged hand. “Where were you, for the spirits’ sake?” Anders scolded his partner.

John had blood on the side of his neck, but he didn’t seem to be suffering, so Anders figured out that the blood wasn’t his own. “I was trying to see if we could steal horses and open the North gates, but that won’t be possible,” John replied, his breath short, “plus, Herrick is coming back from the loch’s bank with more soldiers.”

“Let’s get out of here before he arrives,” Anders pressed John and the others. 

Just as he said that, an exclamation of pain made him snap his head to the left. Annag fell down, holding her leg.  An arrow had hit her behind the knee.

“They’re shooting at us,” Anders shouted. Clearly, they had given up on taking the former Great Lord and his consort alive.

John rushed to the woman to help her up but she pushed him away. “Take her, take my daughter with you,” she wailed. “I beg you. Leave me here, I’m going to slow you down.” 

A crossbow bolt passed so close to his right ear that Anders even heard its whizzing sound and felt the air draft it created on the side of his face. He jerked back. Something wet and warm started dripping on his cheek. He didn’t have time to really acknowledge it or the burning pain to his ear. 

“She’s right, John,” Anders pressed his husband. 

“NO, MOMM!! MOOOMMM!” The girl clung to her mother and John had to grab her by the arm and pull her away with all his strength. Her heartbreaking screams echoed inside the courtyard’s walls.

“Come on, lass,” Anders said as he helped John drag her through the breach and outside the walls.

Once on the other side, they had to follow a narrow path between the wall and a high cliff. The moon was bright enough Anders could see the water of the loch below his feet and he swallowed hard. If one of them lost balance and fell, they would not live to tell their adventure. 

The girl, trapped between John and him, let a high pitched squeal out when an arrow ricocheted off John’s helmet and hit her shoulder, inducing fear as only damage.

The path broadened a few meters ahead and they were able to run, with John leading their group, for about five dozen steps along the city’s fortifications before they got to doors that the women who had crossed the breached before them had managed to open or break down. Maybe they had gotten help from inside the city to open the doors, but either way, John, Anders and the young girl were soon in the city streets, trying to put as much distance as possible between them and the archers. Anders had grasped the girl’s hand to make sure she’d stay with them and wouldn’t try to go back to the castle. 

Carraig city was scarily silent. Their heavy panting and their running on the cobblestones were the only audible sounds in the empty streets. With the pillaging Nomads occupying the castle, the citizens must have set an informal curfew and none of them dared go outside after nightfall.

John finally led Anders and the girl to an alleyway, squeezed between a desert pub and a tailor shop, where they could catch their breath and figure out what to do next. 

As soon as they were there, Anders let go of the girl’s hand, but she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight.  Anders froze and cast a helpless look at John over her shoulder, unsure what to do, but there was no answer in the younger man’s eyes. Slowly and tentatively, he circled her trembling form and returned her embrace. She cried into the crook of his neck, the sobs making her whole body shake as she keened.

 Eventually, after long minutes where Anders just held her, too uncomfortable to do anything else, she started to calm down.

“What’s your name, lass?” John asked gently when she finally peeled herself from Anders.

“Jamie, my lord,” she sniffled. 

“Do you have any relatives who live in town, Jamie?”

“My mo-mother’s aunt,” she replied, stumbling over her words. “She li-lives by the market place.”

John put his hand on her shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “We’ll bring you there, alright?”

She nodded, trying to dry some of the tears with the back of her hand.

“Come on, let’s move,” John urged them. Anders gave the sword he was still carrying to John who put it back in the sheath on his belt. 

Jamie immediately slipped her little, trembling hand into Anders’.

Letting go of that hand was absolutely not an option, so he squeezed it, but Anders couldn’t help but wonder why she had chosen him. He was a stranger, and probably the less qualified in the whole country when it came to comforting a child. John would have made a hundred times better job, but she had still chosen him.

 

***

 “Nana!!!” Jamie cried in relief, throwing herself into the old lady’s arms when she opened the door.

“Oh, Jamie… my darling!” her great-aunt exclaimed, holding her tight and petting the girl’s brown hair. “We thought you dead!”

“No! Mom and I were prisoner in the ca-castle,” Jamie explained between two sobs. 

“Come on, come inside,” she invited the young girl, rubbing her hands to warm her up. “You’re all cold.”

“She’s in shock,” John supplied. 

The elderly woman looked, a bit puzzled, at the two men standing awkwardly on the threshold with blood on their faces. John had taken the precaution to take the Norse helmet off and abandon it outside on the street.

 “Steafan,” the lady hailed a lanky boy who had just peeked in the hallway from the top of the stairs. “Bring Jamie to the kitchen and get her something hot to drink, please.” The boy came down and led Jamie to another room.

The woman brought her attention back to her unexpected guests. “Come in, dear sirs,” she hesitantly invited John and Anders in. “Do you know what happened to Annag?”

“We were prisoners in the castle as well. We managed to free the other captives but when we tried to flee, Annag got injured,” John explained after the old woman had closed the door. “She begged us to get Jamie out of there. We had to leave her behind.”

Her cheeks had lost their color. “That’s horrible.”

“I’m truly sorry we couldn’t do more for her,” the brunet sympathized.

Annag’s aunt chose to believe them, nodded and offered them her best attempt at a smile. “At least, I’d like to learn the names of the brave men who saved my grand-niece.”

Anders hesitated, thinking that maybe it would be a good idea to give her a false identity, but his spouse seemed to have a different opinion. “I’m John, Madam, and this is my husband, Sir Anders.”

Her eyes widened when she hastened to curtsey and apologize: “Oh, dear spirits! Your Highness, Your Grace, I’m so sorry I did not recognize you…. I… we… thought you were dead as well.”

“That’s understandable, giving the circumstances,” John reassured her. “But I’m afraid we can’t stay any longer under your roof. They will soon start searching for us and we wouldn’t want to get you into trouble. We just wanted to make sure Jamie would be safe.”

“She will be safe here. I just wanted to let you know that my family and I have always been loyal to the Mitchells and always will. Annag is especially fond of your father, the spirits have his soul. He sponsored her workshop when she opened it and always bought the musical instruments for Brastàl court from her.”

“Yes! Of course, Annag Murdoch!” John remembered. “I should have made the connection.” His mouth twitched, as he tried to smile, but his eyes were misting with tears. Anders knew his husband enough to see that he was blaming himself for not having been able to save Annag. “I’ll remember your kind words, Madam,” the former Great Lord gently said.

Anders leant to the side to whisper in his spouse’s ear: “we really should go.” He was afraid to see Herrick or his men barge in any second, and the sooner he would be out of Carraig, the sooner he’d be able to breathe again.

They bid their goodnights to the mistress of the house and, knowing Jamie was in good hands, they took their leave in the dark streets soon after.

 

 

The castle’s barn was obviously still burning, because a smell of smoke followed them until they were out of the city. Fortunately, this smell was the only thing that seemed to have followed them. If their enemies had decided to come after them, they had not been able to organize a search yet. The gate that led out of the city was closed but not guarded, and John only had to break the wooden mechanism with his battle axe for the doors to be unblocked.

Where to go now was not even a matter they took the time to address. They needed first to put as much distance as they could between them and Herrick. They avoided the roads and the blond man followed his husband as they headed North-West, across the moor, toward a forest nestled between two hills. In the dark, they did their best to avoid the prickly bushes. Anders’ cloak tended to get caught in them, but despite it and the few scratches on his legs, Anders felt lighter. Soon, they were far enough that, when the Aklànder looked over his shoulder, the fire coming from the burning stables was only a little, bright dot downhill.

The farther they got from Carraig, the more exhilarated he felt. They had made it. They had gotten away. At some point, he climbed on a rock and couldn’t help a victorious laugh as he looked at the endless sky and the immense landscape around them. “We’re free, John! At last! Damned gods! It feels so good!”

John obviously did not share his excitement. He had remained quiet and on guard since the moment they had left the city. “Keep walking,” he commanded, reaching his left hand out to help Anders step down his improvised pedestal. The older man ignored the offered hand, but he jumped down the rock and followed his partner.

“Come on, we’ve just beaten Herrick,” Anders tried to cheer his spouse up as John set an even rapider pace. The brunet had longer legs than he did, and Anders had a hard time keeping up. He had to trot by his side to catch up on him.

“We’ve beaten no one,” John said in the same stern voice.

“He thought he had us on a leash, but we proved him wrong. He’s a loser right now, even you can’t deny it,” Anders insisted.

John stopped abruptly and lifted his hand. “Shh.” 

“What?”

John shushed him again. “Listen.”

Anders did stop and listened. At first, he did not hear anything at all: only the wind in the grass and the bushes. Even the forest was still too far for the sound of the wind in the trees to be carried to them.

Then, Anders heard it: the neigh of a horse, and then, a second one… There were riders coming, but that was not so much the sounds of horses that made Anders’ heart speed, but the barks that followed. Their enemies had sent Carraig’s castle pack to hunt them down. 

John had already seized his cloak’s hood and pushed him to run toward the forest. The brunet had been right not to rejoice too early: they had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Anders had never run that fast of his entire life. He knew John could be even faster, and still, the younger man stayed behind to cover his back, following him closely as they tried to reach the forest and find shelter under the trees before the dog pack would catch up on them.

The blond man was exhausted already and he was pretty sure his legs would give up soon. His dry throat felt as if he had swallowed a handful of hot sand. There was a coppery taste of blood in his mouth from his inflamed lungs.  But he had to keep running. Because otherwise it would mean certain death, or worse, being captured again. 

Anders wondered if there was a chance for them to make it, even if they reached the forest before the hounds were on them. It was easy to hide from human eyes in the night, but escape a dog’s sense of smell was a whole other challenge.

Soon, Anders knew, his lungs and legs would give up. His last drops of energy were leaving him as fast as water from a pierced thimble.

They reached the woods, but even John had to slow down, his exhaustion obvious.

Every single muscle was burning in Anders’ arms and legs as if they were full of blazing coals. He was going to throw up if he didn’t stop. “John,” he hailed his husband, choking on the word. “I can’t… I can’t…” he panted, resting his back on the trunk of an old ash tree. John stopped as well. “I can’t go on either,” he admitted, panting heavily, leaning on the tree by his spouse’s side.

The barking sounds, the shouting voices and the muffled thumping of horse’s hooves on the ground were growing louder and coming in their direction.

The couple looked at each other, the idea of just giving up and embracing their doom crossing their mind for a split second. Neither of them really wanted to lose their hard-gained freedom, but the odds were not in their favor.

Anders remembered his first marital trial. He lifted his head and looked at the branches of the ash tree above him and the moonlight filtering through them. _“Boars don’t climb trees, and neither do dogs,”_ he thought. In that dire situation, this was maybe their only chance.

John had put his hand to his belt, ready to draw the Norse sword and slice anything that would try to get to them, but Anders stopped his gesture. “The tree. We should climb it.” Maybe that would not prevent the dogs from finding them, but at least they would be out of reach from nasty jaws and pointy fangs.

Anders didn’t lose a second and climbed a few branches. The dogs were getting closer now, howling like dying souls. They would soon be into the woods.

The Aklànder turned around and crouched down on his branch. He reached a hand out to help John climb, but with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he understood that his husband was not going to follow him in that tree: not because he couldn’t, Anders would have helped him, but because he had taken another decision. 

“Stay there, I’ll try to lead them away from you,” John told him.

“Not a chance,” Anders growled, feeling both anger and panic overwhelming him. “Grab my hand!” he ordered.

John did not move and only stared back, as if using the last seconds he had to imprint an image of his lover in his mind. 

“John Mitchell, grab my fucking hand !!!!”

“I’m sorry, Anders” John simply said, and with that he was gone. 

Anders stayed frozen there for a split second. He wanted to jump down the tree and chase John in the woods, but his frightened body was not responding to him anymore. He snapped out of his torpor, but he couldn’t fight his own self-preserving instincts that commanded him to climb up the tree, stay there, and not move. Which he did.  He climbed as high as he could and held on to the tree trunk, trembling from anger and distress. He wanted to scream and cry at the same time, as his brain was trying to catch up on what had just happened.

The forest was suddenly full of howls and barking. Fortunately, the woods were thick enough the human trackers could not get in the forest on horseback.  But they could rely on the hounds to find the fugitives.  A few of the tall, grey dogs did stop at the foot of the ash tree: scratched and whined, but they were soon attracted by something else and receded in the forest, aiming for another prey, Anders suspected with consternation, had dark brown hair and wore a Norse armor maculated in blood. These dogs were primarily trained to hunt animals. They would surely get more excited by something that was trying to get away from them (what John probably was at this second) than a motionless form in a tree that they couldn’t reach anyway.

The dogs were now out of Anders’ quite limited range of sight, but he could still hear the rumpus they caused further in the wood. He prayed they had not found what they were looking for.

He couldn’t do anything. Just stay there, his face pressed to the rough bark, and wait for it to be over. There was a pained squeal that didn’t sound human and Anders’ blood ran cold. Then, a strident sound echoed between the trees. A familiar one. The yelp of a fox. Anders’ heart jumped. _Tiolam?_

That sound made the hounds go crazy. They all started barking at the same time. The pack’s noises faded as they were chasing their new target further into the woods.

The blond man heard angry curses in the Nomad language and he curled up on his branch, to make himself as small as possible.  

The nomads blew a hunting horn to call the dogs back, but it took them a while to be able to get them to abandon their chase. Anders hoped his pursuers would throw the towel in on trying to find him, and it seemed to be the case, because the forest was deadly silent now.  

Every second was longer than the last one as the blond man didn’t dare move from his safe spot. Long minutes stretched into half an hour. Anders expected that if his husband had managed to avoid the dogs, he would come back to the tree and make him know he was alright… if he knew how to come back, but nobody came. Maybe John was injured, somewhere, and Anders couldn’t stay in that tree forever. He stood on the branch. His legs were stiff and protested in throbbing waves of pain.

Slowly he climbed down the ash tree and started wandering in the woods, trying to head in the general direction where he had heard that dog squeal before the intervention of the fox.

Mikkel used to call him a pussy when, as a kid, he refused to leave the tent at night during hunting trips. But Johan used to tell his blond son: “The woods at night are exactly the same as the woods during the day: the same animals live in it; it’s the same trees and the same rocks. The only thing that changes is the light. Don’t allow your imagination to add dangers to those who are already there. ”

The screeching call of a barn owl made Anders jump out of his skin. It very much sounded like the desperate scream of a tortured woman and he was already a bundle of nerves. The blond man accelerated, not paying attention to where he was going anymore. Anders wished he could call out his spouse’s name, but in his current situation, it was too dangerous.

And Anders was truly trying to live up to Johan’s words. “ _The woods at night are exactly the same as the woods during the day,”_ he repeated in his mind. But the fear of the dark and the monsters of his childhood, or even of the boars or the bears that were actually there in the forest, was quite different from the one of being torn apart by a pack of dogs or tripping over his husband’s dead body.

Just as he wished with all the mental strength he still had that the last scenario would not happen, his left foot bumped on a limp mass on the ground. The hair on his arms stood up, but he soon figured out that what was lying there had not a human form. It was one of the hound dogs. Anders strode over the body and got on with his search.

He had just passed a group of birch trees when a branch cracked. He stopped, with the sudden feeling that he wasn’t alone.

 “Anders?” a voice said, emerging from the dark a few steps away from him.

Anders couldn’t help the strangled cry of sheer terror that escaped from his throat. A second later, he was grabbed from behind and there was the palm of a hand blocking his mouth and preventing him from screaming any louder. Eyes wide, panting, scared stiff, he did not even try to struggle. Hot lips were pressed to his ear shell, whispering soothing words. “It’s me, Anders. That’s just me, _a ghraìd_.” The pad of John’s thumb rubbed his cheek in a calming caress. “Calm down, my love. I’ve got you. Shhhh, it’s alright now,” John tried to appease him in-between kisses to the side of his neck and behind his ear. As a fraction of the tension left Anders, the pressure of the hand on his mouth eased a little.

John slowly and carefully let go of him, but Anders wasn’t exactly calmer. His fear had just turned into scorching anger. 

“You-you’re such a fu-fucking bastard!” Anders stammered, spinning around in order to bang on John’s chest with his fist, close to tears. “FUCK! I hate you!”

“I’m sorry, but I had to do it,” John apologized, grabbing the smaller man’s shoulder as he tried not to get hit again. 

But it was in vain. “No! You didn’t, you really didn’t have to do that!” the blond man yelled, punching his husband on the sternum. He didn’t care about how loud he was. He was way too furious for that.

John caught his lover back into his arms and shushed him again. But Anders would have none of it and he pushed the taller man away.

“That’s alright now,” John tried to reassure him.  “When the fox yelped, the hounds left me alone. I’m fine.”

“Good for you! But I’m not! I’m not fine!”

“I understand how you feel.”

“No, you don’t understand! You are going to shut your damn mouth and listen to me, you reckless idiot,” the blond man yelled, poking the middle of John’s chest with his forefinger. “I’m so freaking tired of being afraid. I’m tired of feeling like I’m going to vomit my own guts every damn second, but I can take some more if it’s needed: the dark woods, the dogs and the blood-thirsty enemies: bring them on!  But the kind of distress you just put me through; being left alone, not knowing what would happen to you: I can’t take it anymore. Never again, you hear me!? No more of that heroic bullshit!  We stick together, even if it means having to die together. Is that clear!?”

John nodded.

“Not a fucking nod. That’s not enough,” Anders insisted in a growl. “I want a promise! No! I need you to take an oath,” he decided. “Right here and now: before me.”

John gave him a grave look. “Are you sure about that? I hope you understand the implications of such an oath.”

Anders crossed his arms. “I’m not moving from here until you comply.”

The former Great Lord took his spouse’s hand and put a light kiss to the side of his thumb. “I’m your servant,” he sighed. He unsheathed the Norse sword, planted it in the soil and put a knee to the ground, his unarmed hand resting on the hilt. “I, John James Aodhan Douglas Mitchell, promise to you, Anders Johan Deaghan Johnson Mitchell, to never leave your side of my own accord when danger arises, no matter how much I’d want to give my life to spare yours. May the spirits be the witnesses of this solemn promise and the spirit of death condemn my soul to eternal wandering if I ever fail to keep it.” 

Anders stared at his husband as he waited for the permission to stand up again. The moonlight was tracing the vague contours of his face and dark hair. He seemed sincere, yet unhappy to have to take that oath. The Aklànder outstretched a hand and helped him back on his feet. The anger and fear had abated somehow and Anders’ heartbeat had gone back to a bearable speed. He just felt extremely tired now.

After John had put the sword back into its sheath, Anders bent his neck forward and let his forehead rest on John’s shoulder. It felt like putting his head on a stone. “Don’t do that to me ever again,” he murmured.

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

Now that the matter was sorted out, the Aklànder stepped away from his husband and he looked around, trying to orientate himself. He was not even sure what direction he had taken to come here. He scrutinized the darkness, through the trees, trying to see some lights from Carraig. “We are most likely lost in those fracking woods,” Anders said in a flat voice. “I know it’s too late for saying that, but maybe I should have taken Herrick’s offer and go with him to Brastàl. At least he would have given you a horse to get away from here.”

John didn’t seem in any hurry to move. He sat down on a fallen tree with a heavy sigh and kicked some dirt with the tip of his boot. “Herrick never had any intention to let me get away from Carraig alive. It’s a corpse he would have put on that horse.”

 “You think he would have killed you at some point?” Anders asked distractedly as he kept scanning the forest in search of any familiar landmark.

“No. He would not have had to do it. He knew I was already dying.”

This time, Anders looked at his lover with a frown. “What do you mean?”

John kept quiet, holding Anders’ gaze as if he wished he didn’t have to answer. This silence increased the Aklànder’s worry. “John, what do you mean?” he pressed him, taking a few steps toward his husband.

“That’s what I tried to tell you, last night… before we fell asleep,” the younger man started to explain reluctantly. “My hand, the wound; it’s putrid. It’s eating my flesh and poisoning my blood slowly but surely.”

Anders’ stomach rose, more from deep worry than disgust. “Why didn’t Michele cure you? I thought she had!?”

 “She can’t cure that. She did her best to slow the process, but there is no plant, mixture, poultice or even prayers that can save my hand.”

The older man shook his head in denial. “No. That’s not possible. It’s not-”

“Trust me,” John cut him off, as softly as he could. “I saw those kinds of putrescent injuries on soldiers before. I know you pretended not to notice the stench it’s giving off, but it’s true. My hand is gangrened.”

In fact, Anders had blamed it on the fact neither of them had had a real bath since… (he didn’t even want to think about it.) He started pacing, running his fingers through his hair and chewing on his lower lip. “There’s got to be a solution.”

“Yes, and this solution is amputation,” John affirmed. He seemed, in fact, quite neutral about it. At least, his tone was.

Anders stopped in his tracks. “But… we cannot go back to Brastàl.” John would need very specific medical attention that couldn’t be found in some remote villages, and no way was he going to perform that surgery himself in the middle of the woods. Maybe it was time he told John about Lord Duncan taking his castle, but his husband saved him from having to make that confession.

“No, you’re right. We can’t,” John confirmed. “If Herrick searches for us, it’s in Brastàl’s direction that he will: up North. There are miles and miles of bare hills separating us from Brastàl, without many villages to take shelter or get food and not many forests to hide.”

“Oh, do I know that,” Anders replied, remembering all too well his journey from Longdale to the south border. 

“But that doesn’t mean I’ll let Herrick get what he wants,” the dark-haired man said in a firm tone. “I have to find allies to help me defend Brastàl: Clan Douglas, the Johnsons maybe. I doubt anybody will want to fight under my command anymore, but the Norse and the Nomads are invading our country, all the clans have a common cause. We’ll head to the West and the Douglas land,” he decided. “There is a surgery school in Rosecliff and I trust its headmistress.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to make it there,” Anders asked, looking down at the warrior’s bandaged hand as if it would spontaneously combust.

“Michele said I have a few weeks in front of me.”

“How reassuring!” the blond man snorted, not able to conceal his concern.

John stood up. “Anders… look at me,” he pleaded his husband as he wrapped his fingers around the shorter man’s forearm. “I’m going to do whatever is needed to stay alive. I just vowed not to leave you of my own accord, didn’t I?”

“Fine, let’s not waste time and find a way out of this forest, then.”

John let go of his spouse’s arm in order to indicate the path to take. “That way. Once in the glen, we’ll use the Pole star to orient us.”

Anders followed him through the woods, incredulous. “You knew where to go all along?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say so? You let me look around like an idiot.”

John had a little chuckle and took Anders’ hand in his. He guided him out of the woods and into the glen.

They were alone, in the hills, with no horses and no food supplies, but Anders still had John. Yes. At least he had him. He could do without the rest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, lovely folks. 
> 
> In case some of you would be wondering about what will happen concerning John's injury, I just want to let you know that I won't give any kind of gore or gross details/descriptions about it.
> 
> Also: my notions of icelandic come from google translate, so I'm sorry if there is any icelandic speakers among you and that it turns out the sentences are not completely well-translated. 
> 
> There was a lot of things going on in that chapter, but I hope you appreciated your read. :)


	15. Blood Before Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are not alone, my lord."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to Katyussha for the proofreading and her valuable opinion and to Dragon4488 for her drawings that amaze me every time.

 

At that point, his pride was the only thing that kept Anders from begging John for a pause or from collapsing face first into the grass and falling asleep. Until John decided they would rest, Anders couldn’t give up. He would not admit he was bone-weary and would use every single crumb or drop of strength left in him to put a foot in front of the other. In truth, his legs were so sore he had been limping his way through the moor for at least two miles now. Anders couldn’t believe his husband wasn’t in the same state, but if John suffered, he did not let anything show. The Aklànder figured he had to do the same and keep his complaints for himself. After all, he wasn’t the one whose life was spilling quickly like sand in an hourglass. They had to make it to Rosecliff before the poison from John’s festered wound made him too sick to travel. Anders didn’t want to have to carry him on his back.

Anders had dropped behind and John stopped, waiting for his spouse further up the hill’s slope.

“We have to keep walking until the sun rises,” John encouraged him. “Then, we’ll find a place to rest.”

“I’m fine, I’m not tired,” Anders panted, walking past his husband.

The younger man had the wisdom not to comment on this blatant lie.

Anders set his jaw in determination and he commanded his legs to continue. When all of that would be over, he planned on sleeping for at least four days in a row, preferably with John’s naked body to warm the bed.   

They walked for three more hours and John never slowed the pace, despite being the injured one.

The color of the sky softened, announcing the upcoming dawn. They reached the top of yet another hill and a draft of wind hit them, making John’s curls fly around his face like a flock of startled blackbirds. He was staring at a point down the hill with an anxious frown. Anders followed his gaze and, at first, he didn’t see anything, only a long, fire-like line over the horizon of the endless plains. The sunset crawled through the fog over the Lileas river and finally shed its light on the ruins of a fortified city: a spectacle both beautiful and woeful.  

“That’s Archerwall,” Anders murmured. His comment was punctuated by the cries of crows in the distance.

“Yes,” John answered with a shudder. It wasn’t surprising the place would bring him back to some bad memories. “The hills must be crawling with nomad scouts,” he observed. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to rest just now.”

 _“Are you kidding me!?”_ Anders despaired. He showed a brave face nonetheless and the complaint remained unspoken.  

“Let’s reach the cover of the forest downhill and walk for a few more hours until we leave the city’s immediate surroundings,” John suggested.

“Yes, it will be safer that way,” Anders conceded, despite all his body protesting at the mere thought. “The Nomads captured me not far from here. I’d be damned if they  captured me again.”

The taller man threw him a side glance. “Are you sure you can still stand?”

“Me? Pffff, yes, of course! What makes you think the contrary?”

“Your legs are shaking, Anders,” John remarked.  

“Yeah, it’s because they’re eager to walk more,” the blond man replied. “How are yours?” he asked, challenging his husband’s own state of exhaustion.  

“Sore,” John admitted in an absentminded tone, “but I’ll be fine.” He was still staring at the city, his expression troubled. Obviously, on the contrary to Anders, his legs were the least of his concerns. “We shouldn’t stay here now that the sun’s rising. We’re too exposed.”

Anders acquiesced and followed his husband down a narrow trail that, judging by the prints left in the clay, had been traced by cattle and sheep. They crossed a half-crumbled stone bridge over a stream that was long dried. To the other side of the bridge, Anders bumped into his husband’s back when John stopped dead in his tracks.

John’s face was ashen and his eyes fixed on a point at the top of a grave mound that disfigured the glen like a pustule.

Long ago, when the North Hillers still worshipped the gods, instead of burning their dead and keep the ashes in the temples, they buried them under a tumulus. A great number of tumuli could still be found everywhere in the country, as well as other evidences of the ancient cult: like circles and rows of standing stones. Parents strictly forbade their children to play near those places that were considered cursed and dangerous.

It wasn’t the tumulus in itself that disturbed John, but rather what had been left on its top. The dissonant concert of the crows should have prepared them for what they would find there. A dozen bodies of North Hills soldiers were tied upside down on poles, just like the ones Anders had seen on the road days ago. There wasn’t much of the victims left: skeletons with tatters of flesh and rags. Four of the bodies wore the remains of blue and green tabards. Their heads were turned to the East and their empty eye sockets to the two men staring at them from the foot of the tumulus.

Anders swallowed. Of course, it was not a pleasant sight, but it didn’t affect him as much as it did the first time. John, on the other hand…

Anders nudged him, but the young man did not react. He did not move or speak at the call of his name either. When Anders touched him again, John flinched as if his husband had hurt him. Snapping out of his fixation, John drew his sword. “What are you doing?” Anders asked him, alarmed.

“I have to free my men… I have to free them,” John repeated, and there was something in his eyes that scared Anders a little: something that was not exactly sane. The Aklànder put a hand on John’s forearm, to prevent him from running up the grave mound. “They’re dead, John. It’s too late.”

John looked back at him, as if he was surprised to find his lover there. Warring thoughts assaulted him all at once. “We can’t leave them like that. We have to build a pyre and give them proper funerals,” he insisted.  

Anders understood that the rational part of his husband’s mind had shut down for an indefinite period of time.  He took the sword from John’s grip and spoke slowly, as one would to a very young child. “We can’t build a pyre here. The smoke would alert the Nomads and besides, we don’t have anything to start a fire. I’m sure those soldiers fought well and their souls are already with the spirits and the ancestors. You don’t have to worry about them.”

John listened, his gaze empty, but much to Anders’ relief, he didn’t try to protest when the blond man tugged on his arm to drag him away from the tumulus.

“They were all looking at me… accusing me,” John confided to his husband. Anders didn’t say anything, but cast him a worried glance when they finally reached the shelter of the trees. That forest stretched for miles on the North side of the Lileas River and along the road that led to the Douglas lands.

John had locked himself up in a tormented silence as they made their way through the woods, avoiding to walk too close to the road. John looked like he would snap if the Aklànder dared saying a single word, so Anders kept cautiously quiet.

***

 

The sun reached the zenith. They had progressed and managed to put a few good miles between them and Archerwall without encountering any nomad patrols.  In the rare moments they had gotten a bit closer to the road, they had seen a few civilians. They were refugees from the Ferguson land, traveling West in the hope of find a better life on the coast lands. Anders and John had stayed hidden, not speaking to them or let their presence known.

By now, even pride was not enough to keep Anders going. The pain and stiffness in his legs screamed louder than his need to appear strong.

They reached a clearing where a spring flowed through mossy rocks and pebbles. Without a word, Anders dropped the sword he had carried since their short halt by the tumulus and he leant against a tree with an audible moan of pain.

John acknowledged it with a brief look over his shoulder and he crouched down next to the water spring, which was an excellent idea. Anders’ own throat felt so dry. But John wasn’t drinking. He was trying to wash the splashes of blood that remained on his cheek, jawline and the side of his neck from the killings of the previous night. He tried to cup water with his only available hand to wash himself, but it definitely lacked the efficiency he would’ve had with two hands. His shaky hand spilled its content before it could reach his face.

“ Damn it! I killed three men last night and I can’t even get their blood off my face.” John cursed between his teeth. His voice was but a growl, one that was familiar to Anders’ ears: the first flashes of lightning bolts from an upcoming thunderstorm.

Anders had to react before it would get ugly. He walked to the stream, crouched down by John’s side and cupped water with both hands. “Here, let me help you,” he offered, reaching out for the taller man’s neck.  

John jerked back like stung by a wasp before Anders could pour the water on his bloodied skin. “I don’t need your help!” he roared, jumping on his feet. “I’m not a freaking invalid!!”

“Fine,” Anders replied in a cold, contained tone and stood to face his spouse, “but don’t speak to me like that.”

John’s frown deepened from irritated to dangerous and he took a step forward.

Anders took a swift one back.

John reacted to the gesture with anger. “You think I’m going to hit you!”  

“Are you?” Anders gave back in the same tone. He was still vexed from John’s harsh refusal of his help and he meant it more as a provocation than a real question. He was afraid of many things, but John Mitchell was not one of them.  

John’s nostrils flared. “Who are you taking me for?” he roared, eyes dark with ire.

The lock had broken- the brash beast was unleashed and the fury ready to break loose. Everything his spouse had bottled up since he had seen the dead bodies on the tumulus, since the loss of his fingers, or even since the moment he had left Brastàl: it was about to burst out all at once. John turned away from Anders to kick the nearest tree trunk with all his strength and hit it repeatedly with both hands. “AAAHH! FUCK!! FUUUCK!” John screamed on the top of his lungs, too frantic to care about the danger. “FUCK!!”

The unrestrained scream scared two capercaillie grouses who fled away through the canopy.

That yell: it crushed Anders’ heart without mercy. It was rage and grief voiced: a sound of pure, naked pain. When Herrick had had Borean torture John, the young man had not screamed. He had not begged or pleaded. Physical pain was something John could deal with. He could internalize it. What was pouring out of him right now, that was not mere physical pain. That was his very soul bleeding all over the forest ground, from every pore of his skin, like every vein had been cut open.  

A last distraught howl tore John’s throat. He slipped down on his knees next to the tree, panting heavily.

He was seized by a serious pain of a depth Anders did not quite comprehend. What kept him from making a move toward the suffering man just yet was the fear of making it worse if he said or did anything. He considered his own comforting skills to be quite limited, and testing them on a wounded beast was maybe not a good idea. On the other hand, John might be acting just like one right now, he wasn’t some animal caught in a trap that Anders had happened to stumble across in the woods. He was the man Anders had bound his wrist to. He had vowed to support him in every circumstance and help him carry the weight of his title and obligations. Sure, Anders might not have meant those words when he had said them, during the wedding ceremony, but they could not be unsaid and he had now to honor his promise.

Anders approached his spouse. John had not moved. His head was still down and his shoulders hunched under the weight of his sorrow. “What happened to Annag, it wasn’t your fault,” Anders told him. “None of us could have saved her. And those men you killed yesterday… you had no other choice.”  

John turned his head and lifted his gaze to him. His eyes were red and haggard. “You think I do not know that?” he asked. “I know I didn’t have a choice. I never have. I can’t escape it. I’ve already killed more people than you’ve met. No matter what I do, I always end up killing people and people die because of me.”

With a sigh, Anders slowly knelt down next to his husband to be at his eyes’ level. He pulled on John’s arm to make him shift and face him. “Listen. We are away from Carraig. We left Herrick behind. You can let go of the angst now.”  

John took a sharp intake of air and his eyes darkened again. He grasped Anders’ shoulder and squeezed, hard, but not enough to hurt him. “What do you think?” he said, his voice rough and rueful. “That it is over? That we are safe and sound? Whatever clever plan you’ll find to get us out of the next predicament that’ll inevitably fall on our heads, there will be another, then another one. Don’t mistake me, I’m glad you made us escape from Carraig. If it wasn’t from you, we would still be rotting there, quite literally in my case. But that’s true. As long as you are with me, it’s never going to be over: you are never going to be safe.” John’s hand left Anders’ shoulder and his fingers, still slightly wet from the spring’s water, touched Anders’ neck, just below his ear. A bit of blood remained there from the scratch the crossbow bolt had made to his ear shell. John took a look at his reddened index and murmured.  “I’m just afraid that someday, it’s going to be your blood on my hands.”

Anders stared at the soiled digit, feeling slightly dizzy. He hated blood, and his own more than anyone else’s.

John’s voice was broken when he spoke again: “I thought loving you would cleanse me.I thought you would free me from a fate drowned in violence and death. But everything I touch gets corrupted, or destroyed.”

His lips trembled and he looked down to avoid Anders’ gaze. The curls spilled in front of his face, but not hiding it enough so Anders’ wouldn’t notice the tear that rolled down the scruffy cheek, immediately followed by another.

 _“No, no please… not that… no tears…please, stop crying,”_ Anders silently begged his lover. At that instant, he discovered he hated tears even more than he hated blood, and John’s ones were worse than anyone else’s.

“So many have died, Anders,” John sobbed. “So many have perished by my fault. I brought our country to its ruin. Every time I close my eyes I see them: all the soldiers who died under my command in Archerwall, because of my poor strategic decisions, because I couldn’t prevent the clans from getting divided. I can still hear them scream in pain on the battlefield. They scream for their husbands and wives. They scream for all the children they’ll never hold in their arms. Their pale, dead faces is the last thing I see before I fall asleep and the first thing I see when I wake up. Death-spirit!!! I swear I want to tear my eyes out!!” John wailed. His hand grasped Ander’s coat, holding on to him so tight, like a last attempt not to fall deeper into despair. “It’s driving me mad, Anders. It’s driving me mad!”

John’s shoulders now shaked with the forceful sobs he just couldn’t hold back.

Anders didn’t think. At a loss of anything else to do, he just embraced the shaking form and drew the young man closer. “Gods, Shhhh…John,” he whispered into the dark curls. “It’s not your fault. None if this is your fault. It’s not like you sent an invitation to the Norsemen, asking them to come over and invade us. You could not predict what was to happen.”

John pulled back to look into Anders’ eyes as more tears gathered in his own. “ It _is_ my fault,” he protested. “I didn’t know they were coming, but I could have prevented the blood bath. I was arrogant, far too sure of myself. I had won your heart- therefore I could win anything,” he declared in a bitter, humorless chuckle.  “I was so vainglorious, wearing my titles and my past exploits like a torc that made me invincible. I was John Mitchell, son of James, Great Lord of the North Hills, protected by the spirits. I could not be defeated. Losing was for others. Not for me.” He gulped, trying in vain to swallow back the tears. “But I was wrong, and so obstinate. I could have called a retreat- spare the lives of my men. I should have abandoned Archerwall, but I didn’t. Your brother, Lord Douglas, Lady Keir, Lord Blackwood; they begged me to reconsider. But that’s not what I did. I called them cowards and I sent the contingents to battle, one after another, until there were none to send anymore. It was too late when I realized how foolish and insane I had been. The wind would never turn into our favor. The wind didn’t care who I was.”

John still wept, but the chiseled lines of his face had turned into cold, pale marble. “I knew I couldn’t go back to Brastàl. After what I did, I thought I’d never be able to look you in the eyes ever again, or in my lady mother’s eyes… or Annie’s and George’s. Duncan was right about me. I am only a stupid youngster, without experience or skills. That’s why I chose to stay in Archerwall, like a captain sinking with his ship. When the city was taken and the Nomads got to my quarters, they cut my squire’s throat in front of me. I was nearly disappointed they didn’t kill me as well. Ruaidhri had a mother and three brothers waiting for his return. He was innocent and he paid for my mistakes with his life, like so many others.” He took a deep breath.  “I don’t deserve mercy or forgiveness. I am certainly not worthy of your affection, not after I’ve robbed so many people of their loved ones. But then you came all the way from Brastàl to save me: and like the weak, pathetic man I am, I let you risk your life for me and I fought to beat the fever in order to stay with you. That’s what I did, by staying alive: I took a gift I didn’t deserve. When you touch me, when you kiss me, when I get to sleep by your side, all I feel is guilt: because for a second I forget all of those who will never touch their lovers again because of me.”  

John fell silent and kept his head down, as if  awaiting a judgement; even a condemnation perhaps.

Anders remained pensive for a long minute. “Yes, what happened to them, that’s terrible,” he conceded. “But what about me?”

The unexpected question took John aback. “Sorry?” he asked with a sniffle, confusion in his red and puffy eyes when he lifted his chin to look at his husband.  

“Yes. Have you thought about it? What if _I_ need _you_ ? What if I need _my_ husband?” Anders specified. He paused long enough to take John’s hand and pulled it onto his lap. “Are you going to deprive me of him as well?”

John did not try to take his hand away, but his fingers stayed stiff and unresponsive when Anders laced his with them.

“I think it’s too late. I’m afraid the man you married died in Archerwall,” John replied.  

“Who am I talking to, then?”

“An echo.”

Anders shook his head. “Don’t play that melodrama with me,” he warned him and let go of John’s hand in order to grab his husband’s face and look at him intently. “I refuse to believe that, because when I look at you, I still see him.” A part of Anders wanted to shake the younger man, tell him to cut the tragic hero bullshit. But John was so deeply wounded. Also, if Anders couldn’t bear it, it was because he was afraid that those words might hold some truth. He was scared that after everything he had been through, John would never be the same again: the lively, kind and annoyingly romantic man who fought so hard to win him over.

John’s lips were sealed into a thin, fragile line and his eyelids still swollen with unshed tears. The amount of pain and sheer exhaustion that could be read on his body language was the incentive that prompted Anders to take his husband into his arms once more and pull him down so they would lay down on the forest ground side by side in the yellow, coltsfoot flowers. John let himself be gathered into Anders’ arms and dragged down. His head came resting on the blond man’s shoulder.

“ Boyd Cailean, the butcher boy who had set his master’s house on fire: I put him in prison. You remember him?” John asked, his voice only a low whimper.  

“Yes.”

Anders remembered him all too well.

“When I gave him his sentence, he told me…” John trailed off. He let out a shallow exhale before he went on: “He told me that one day, I’d be standing alone on the ashes of the federation, with destruction everywhere around me. And he was right. It happened.”

“No. He wasn’t right,” Anders objected, staring through the branches of the willow trees at the clouds gathering in the sky. “He was mistaken on the most important thing: you are not alone.” Anders’ fingertips made their way through the dark mane to stroke the back of John’s neck. “You are not alone, my lord.” The body pressed to his side was crossed by a tremor. John did not make a sound, but hot tears spilled on the skin of Anders’ neck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

The wet chill of dusk settling into every bone was the only thing that managed to stir Anders from his deep slumber. Emotionally and physically drained, John had cried himself to sleep in his husband’s arms earlier and Anders, even if he didn’t mean to fall asleep there, on the ground next to the spring, had still followed him not long after. Now he woke up shivering and with his arms empty. John was not far, though. His boots were the first thing Anders saw when he opened his eyes. The younger man was seated nearby, watching over him with his back to the tree that had been the unfortunate victim of his fit of anger.

Anders sat up with a groan. Sleep did not refresh him in the slightest, but maybe he was a little less like a walking corpse. “It was stupid to fall asleep there. We could have been captured,” he remarked, his voice still raspy. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Yes. I only woke up an hour ago,” John replied, even if everything about him suggested he didn’t have any rest.  The blood stains on his face were gone, as was a part of his shirt’s collar he had torn up to use as a cloth and finally remove the evidences of last night’s murders.

Anders stretched his back with a wince. Roots and rocks weren’t the softest of mattresses. He threw a worried look at his spouse’s left hand, wrapped in a bandage that started to get dirty. Every hour they wasted on the road was a step closer to the grave for John. “You should have woken me up.”   

“Nah. You needed to rest,” John simply replied.  “You’re going to thank me for having let you sleep longer, because we’ll walk all night long,” he informed him as he stood up and grabbed the sword Anders had left on the ground earlier. John stepped across the stream and all Anders could do was get on his feet and follow.

 

 

***

They barely spoke for the rest of the night. Anders kind of hoped John would not speak of what had happened earlier, and to his relief, he didn’t. It would inevitably resurface at some point.

They didn’t really get the opportunity to share a long conversation anyway. They had to focus on not getting lost and for now, being sneaky and silent was a must since they still were in hostile territory.

By the morning, they had reached a part of the country that appeared to be a sort of no man’s land between the territory the Nomads had conquered and what was still under the control of Clan Douglas. This didn’t mean they could lower their guard, but the exhaustion of a long night of walking inevitably made them less prudent. Thus, when they found an abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods, they saw it as a sign from the spirits and deemed it safe to hide there and rest until nightfall.

Anders fumbled with frenzy through the cabinets, but the lumberjacks who had abandoned the place for moons now had not left anything edible behind. Anders found an old, dented pan, but he had nothing to cook in it, and that was rather depressing.

The Aklànder’s stomach was constricted and cramped. His husband and he had not eaten anything since they had left Carraig. They had been able to ignore the hunger for a little while, but that was not possible anymore. They would not be able to walk for another night if they didn’t eat.  

The morning fog outside was as thick as a pea soup. Smoke coming out of a chimney would not be visible and that allowed them the small luxury of having a fire in the hearth. After he had taken off the Norse ring mail, John took the steel from a nail to the mantelpiece. Inside a metal box, he found a piece of charred cloth, a flint and some dry oakum as tinder. He gathered pieces of charcoal and twigs to start a fire, but then, he gave Anders a mortified look. He wouldn’t be able to light the fire with only one hand. Anders helped him without a word. When the first little flames squirmed out of the heap of twigs, John let the palm of his hand and his cold fingers drink in their heat.

Anders had not abandoned his quest for food yet and he would not until he had searched every single corner of the cabin. A wooden box had been overthrown on the floor to mend the handicap of a three-legged chair. When he disassembled the precarious piece of furniture and looked under the box, Anders found a squirrel’s stash underneath. In the heap of shredded fabric there were hazelnuts, acorns and pine cones. A good number of the nuts had been preserved from humidity. Anders brought his treasure to the fireplace. He cracked the hazelnuts and the acorns open and he plucked the pine nuts from the cones. He separated them into two equal piles: the ones that showed to have been affected by moisture on one side and the good ones on the other. He kept the dubious ones for himself and gave the good ones to his husband.

John whispered his gratitude and then proceeded to slip the nuts one by one between his pale lips.  That meager breakfast filled a ridiculously tiny space in their stomachs and just left them longing for meat, bread, vegetables and fruits.

None of them questioned or even commented the other’s need for closeness and they just accepted it as a fact as they settled to sleep on the floor, under Anders’ cloak and with the Aklànder’s head tucked under John’s chin.

 

***

 

Around midday, Anders cracked an eye open, woken from an unpleasant dream by repeated scratching sounds on the door of the cabin. The fire in the hearth was long dead and John still asleep. Without disturbing him, the blond man  left his side and reached for the Norse battle axe his husband had left nearby. The sound was probably just some animal, and it was useless to alert John for that, but Anders still didn’t want to take any chance. The noises had ceased, but his heart was still thumping in his chest as he headed for the door and slowly pulled it open, ready to defend himself against whatever he’d found on the other side.

“What the-,“ he muttered.

There was indeed an animal on the doorstep, but a dead one, which didn’t make any sense. He gave a little kick to the fat, mountain hare lying there, but it didn’t move. It was truly dead. Looking around in the foggy woods, Anders didn’t see anything or anyone that could explain where it could come from. He picked the hare up and inspected its fur. The hare still had its soft, white and brown winter coat and was freshly killed. The blood from the wounds on its neck was warm. Anders couldn’t be certain, but it really looked like the hare had been killed by a fox or another animal from the canine species. _“Could it be-“_

“What’s that?” John’s voice asked behind Anders’ back, making him jump.

“Someone left us a gift,” he explained, showing his husband the hare, holding it by its back legs. “I’m wondering if it’s Tiolam that brought it. Maybe she found us.”

John lifted an eyebrow. “Tiolam? Why would she be here? I assumed you left her in Brastàl?”

Anders had not told John yet about his fox having followed him despite his attempt at leaving her at the castle, and then with the priestesses. He hastened to correct that fact. “She used to hunt rabbits for me when I crossed the hills from Longdale,” he added once he had finished his summary of the vixen’s adventures.  

Anders scanned the forest around one more time. “If the hare was her doing, why didn’t she show herself?” he mused. “Maybe she is wary of humans now. I couldn’t blame her.”

John hadn’t missed his lover’s disappointed expression. He prompted him to get back inside with a light touch on his shoulder. “You want to cook it now?” he inquired when he closed the door and Anders put the hare down next to the fireplace.

“As mouth-watering as this idea sounds,” Anders began, wrapping the hare into an old piece of fabric to make an easily transportable bundle, “I think it would be a better idea to ration ourselves and keep it for later.”

“That would be wise, yes,” John agreed. He cast a look through one of the small windows. It was still the middle of the afternoon. “Let’s get a few more hours of rest. We’ll leave again by nightfall.”  

Anders could protest that they were wasting precious time, but he had to agree that travelling by night was safer. Also, the dark circles around John’s eyes and the fact he perpetually looked on the verge of tears: his forehead marked with worried line and his eyebrows drawn in an almost constant frown, told Anders that even if he wouldn’t complain, John was the one who needed rest the most.  

The dark-haired man spread out Anders’ cloak on the floor and the blond man crawled into his husband’s arms again, trying to chase from his mind any useless desire for the large and soft feather mattress of their conjugal bed in Brastàl castle.

***

 

John had had an agitated sleep again, and by dint of tossing and turning, his kilt had lifted and bunched up, baring his long, lean legs and the beginning of a buttock’s curve. Anders allowed himself a bit of ogling before he pulled the kilt down to preserve his chieftain’s decency and because it would be a shame to let such a pretty arse freeze.

From the light coming in through the window, sunset would not occur before at least an hour. He decided against waking John just now. Instead, Anders stayed there, lying on his back, eyes closed. It was raining on the slate roof. The soft, regular tapping made him drowsy. Every single rain drop had only one chance to make itself known: only a single ‘ _ploc_ ’, but they were all speaking at the same time and Anders was deaf to their voices. Furthermore, his attention was focused elsewhere: to the other sounds that could get to his ear from outside the cabin. He was hoping for a yelp, or one of those cooing purrs Tiolam made when she was excited or up to something wicked. There were scratching noises, but they weren’t the same ones as earlier, only branches scraping the walls of the cabin with the wind.

Anders missed Tiolam. He had grown very fond of that impish ball of ginger fur. Her loss had left a hole the size of a fox den in his heart. She had been a true comfort when Anders was sick and lonely and she had become more than just a consolation to palliate the absence of his husband.

The shuffling at his side caused Anders to open his eyes. John was starting to wake up. However, the Aklànder remained lost in thoughts. He had hoped that, as they wandered in the woods near Archerwall, he would get a sign of his fox, but it hadn’t happened. The hare, though, it could only be her. At the same time, he did not want to entertain any expectations that could be deceived.

“Foxes are not exactly meant to be pets, you know” John whispered in an apologetic tone, as if reading his mind. “They are wild animals. The woods is where they truly belong.”

“I know.”

John propped himself up on his elbow and Anders turned his head to look at him.

“I remember the first time I saw her on that hunter’s display at the market,” John said. “I knew she was the perfect present for you. And when you opened the box and she peeked out; you were so baffled. You should have seen your face,” he reminisced, with one of those fond and tender smiles he used to give Anders when they were lazing in bed after having spent their passion on each other.

That sight made Anders’ heart speed and ache. He wanted all those things again: the smiles, the tenderness and yes, of course, the sex as well.  He followed a sudden impulse and cupped John’s face in his hands. “You should see your own face, right now,” he whispered. He wished John could see that all hope wasn’t lost, and that his old self was not entirely dead. Yes, he was wounded, but he could heal and be whole again. They had a lot of rebuilding to do, and Anders was not only thinking of the whole country, but of their bond as husbands and lovers as well.

Anders pulled his husband’s face closer and put a kiss to John’s left cheekbone. As the taller man closed his eyes, Anders let his lips brush down the rough cheek to his mouth. Those lips had not lost their sensuality. They were his to kiss and Anders took them without asking permission. John hummed at the tender assault and the blond man  increased the pressure and gently toyed with John’s lower lip between his. John slowly engaged himself into the kiss with a flick of tongue, like a question.

Anders’ answer to it was to circle John’s waist in a possessive grip and make his partner roll onto his back as they kept on kissing. A pleasant ball of heat had taken its nest in his lower stomach. Sure, his husband was not in his best shape, but Anders wasn’t even thinking about it. He just wanted him. Anders’ body responded favorably to the sensation of the brunet’s sleep-warm lips with the beginning of an erection under his kilt.

The Aklànder’s hand sneaked under John’s coat and shirt to find his stomach. He rested his palm flat to the warm skin. He didn’t do more for now, just marvelling at how arousing it was: John’s stomach rising and falling with every breath. The life in him was arousing. Anders broke the kiss in order to trace the bearded jawline with his mouth. John, eyes still shut, turned his head slightly to give him a better access to his neck. 

To take his man apart, Anders would only have to rub one of John’s pretty, crimson nipples with the pulp of his thumb while warming up the skin of his neck with nips. Inevitably, the young man would arch his back and grind his hips eagerly to Anders’. Oh, how Anders had missed kissing that neck. It had been too long since the last time he had indulged in that most delightful activity. He had missed it too much to mind the strong musky scent. If anything, it just increased his desire as he touched John’s Adam apple with his lips. As he graced the expanse of the brunet’s neck with breathy kisses, his hand explored further under John’s shirt. His fingers fondled chest hair and lingered on a hardened nipple. John stiffened and tried to escape the caress. Figuring out that he must have done something wrong, Anders withdrew his hand quickly from John’s chest and let it rest to his hip instead. He pulled away to search an answer in John’s eyes.

“Anders…. I can’t…. I won’t….” the taller man tried to explain. He looked upset and guilty.

Anders didn’t have to be a genius to understand what was going on. He should have guessed that because of his injury, the exhaustion and after all the traumatic events he had endured, his spouse would not be able to get an erection just yet.

“You are wasting your time,” John warned him, his jaw tense. “Whatever you do, I won’t get hard.”

“I wasn’t hoping for anything,” Anders soothed as he ran the pad of his thumb on a sharp hipbone. “I just wanted to touch you, but if you don’t like it, I’ll stop. That’s fine.”

John caught his wrist in a firm grip and took Anders’ hand from under his shirt and away from his skin. “Yes, stop! It’s _not_ fine.”

Anders pulled his hand out of the grip and sat up.  “You’re really an ace when it comes to ruining a moment, you know that, right?” he snapped without thinking, frustrated now. He stood and walked to the window.

John was hurt and Anders could hear it in the way his breath hitched.  "I don’t know what fantasy story you’re playing yourself in your head, but things will never go back to the way they were before,” he told Anders.

Footsteps approached Anders from behind and John forced himself into his consort’s line of vision. “They’re going to amputate me,” John reminded him bluntly. “And If I survive that, you are going to live with a one-handed husband for the rest of your life.”

Anders gritted his teeth. “I figured as much.”

"I'm seriously wondering if you realize what it implies for you to stick with me.”

"Is that meant to scare me?"

“They took my right hand. I can’t shoot a bow: archery is over for me. Even if I learn how to use my left hand to swing a sword, it will never be as efficient as before, and I still won’t be able to hold a shield properly. I won’t be able to protect you. This kind of handicap will also jeopardize my ability to accomplish my conjugal duty to your satisfaction,” John enumerated. He averted his spouse’s gaze, humiliated by his reduced capacities. “You know that therefore, you could legally ask for a divorce,” he added in a whisper.

Anders' eyes narrowed. "Is it what you want?"

John sighed. “You made me vow not to leave you when we’re in danger, but you are still free to walk away from me if this can make your life easier. Giving the circumstances, I think nobody would blame you.”

“I don’t like the direction this discussion is taking,” the blond man hissed.

"And yet we got to have it,” John stated. “Don't you understand that with a hand missing, I will never be able to do everything I did with you before? I will never going to be able to hold you and caress you the same way. Apparently I’m also an impotent… and I have no idea how long this will last.”

“You’re no old man. Your vigor will come back,” Anders dismissed it with philosophy.  

“That’s not only a matter of sex, Anders,” John insisted. “I will rely on you or others constantly, to be able to do the simplest of things. I’ll be like a child.”

“I don’t give a damn! That’s what servants are for anyway. I don’t see how this changes anything.”

"You’re saying that now but you may change your mind when-"

“When what exactly?” Anders retorted, losing patience.  His hands balled into fists.  “I came all the way here from Brastàl to save your sorry arse, no matter in what state I would find you, but you are right. I guess I can find a notary in Rosecliff to fill the divorce file as soon as we get there, since you have so little faith in me that you think I'm going to flee at the first obstacle. I can also ask Mikkel to give you a refund for the eighteen hundred gold pieces you spent on me, if it’s your dearest wish."

John didn’t try to defend himself. His gaze on Anders was pain and sadness. “I am grateful for what you did for me and the determination you put into saving me. I will carry your act of selflessness in my heart for the rest of my life. All I want….” John trailed off. He sighed. “I’m just offering you a way out of this mess while you still can.”

The only effect those words had, even though they had been said in a quiet tone, was to make Anders combust. “You know what!? Shove it!” he spat. “You are no better than Mike. You see me as a weakling whose sole ambition is to take the easy way out. Of course, you must think you are the only one here who is brave enough to respect his wedding vows no matter what. Or maybe it's even worse and you think that I value my cock's satisfaction more than I value our marriage,” he accused him.

“Anders…” John said, reaching for his arm.

Anders motioned to stay out of reach. “Don’t _‘Anders’_ me,” he warned him. His icy glare ordered the young man not to make any further attempt to touch him. He turned on his heels and headed to the door.    

“Where are you going?” John inquired.

“Outside. Somewhere. With the birds, the trees and all the other forest shits. I need a fucking break!” And on those biting words, Anders left, slamming the door as he went. John did not attempt to hold him back this time.

 

There was a lump in Anders’ throat as he walked straight ahead, away from the cabin. He was too upset to really pay attention to anything around him. The rain had stopped, bringing back the ineluctable fog. He reached a water stream and followed its course through a forest of tall larches.   

He had that urge to yell some choice curses and take his frustration out on anything. If John allowed himself to flip the lid, why couldn’t he? But Anders was not one for spectacular fits of temper. He fancied himself as being too pragmatic for that. It didn’t mean he was insensitive. Only John’s words were able to catch him off guard, get passed his thick carapace and cut as badly.

Anders slowed the pace of his walk. The scorching wrath cooled down a little.

John was mostly right about him, though. Anders had to admit that lately, he had been in denial a lot. Refusing to acknowledge the reality, he had unconsciously considered the surgery as some kind of miraculous cure that would make John’s injury disappear. In truth, the amputation would save his life, but it would also make the consequences of his injury more apparent, more definitive in a way. Anders hadn’t even wanted a husband in the first place: spending the rest of his life with a handicapped man should terrify him, and he was, in fact, terribly scared.

He kept on dragging his feet and heavy reflexions along the rippling water. The stream had broadened and he could hear the turmoil of a waterfall in the distance.

His brothers, Mike mostly, always accused him of being shallow. Frankly, Anders didn’t do much to prove them wrong. It was always easier to act in a predictable way and stay the arsehole everyone expected him to be. What his family thought of him, he had learnt to live with it. The same expectations coming from John: that was hurting far deeper.

He lifted his head to look ahead.

Through the trees and fog, he could distinguish the square and grey shape of a building: a sawmill, using the power of the waterfall for its machinery. Maybe it was stupid of Anders to approach it, but he was pretty sure the place was empty, as was the cabin John and he had occupied during the day. A rapid look around the premise was enough for him to see that he was alone and that nobody had come here for about as long as the cabin had been abandoned. The waterwheel was still turning, but when Anders walked through the empty doorframe, the gears and saws were silent and motionless, creating the illusion that the time here had stopped. This was exactly the place he needed to sit and think. Next to the window (that was nothing more than a large, rectangular, glassless opening), Anders rested his back to the wall and let himself slip to the floor with a deep sigh.

Anders: the man who would have laughed and call a girl a “dog” and refuse to sleep with her because of some insignificant details, like a tiny mole over her eyebrow: who was he kidding when he pretended he was fine with the idea of sharing for the rest of his life the bed of a man who would have a part of his arm missing?  Anders had ventured on a dangerous field of thought and questions started stinging him from every side like as many arrows shot from dark trenches.  Anders wondered what would have happened if his fiancé had not had his undeniable good looks. Would Anders have developed feelings for John if he had been ugly or had had a deformity of any kind? Would he have fallen for him if he had _only_ been kind, brave, protective and loyal?  Was Anders really that shallow? He had always been quite superficial. His brothers had not made it up. But it was different now. He did not want to be that man anymore. But why was he so afraid, then?

Darkness progressed inside the mill as the sun took a last bow over the horizon before retiring for the night. With his head resting on his forearm, on top of his bended knees, Anders had not noticed it yet.   

A sudden pang of guilt had brought him back three moons ago, at the beginning of winter, when he had brought his husband to spar on the hill outside Brastàl’s wall. John had asked him about his motivations. Anders had replied that those training sessions were meant to make sure John would be prepared to war and that he would get him back _”for the sex”._ That was the stupid reason he had given to his husband. Therefore, he couldn’t entirely blame John for having entertained the idea that his physical satisfaction was the main thing Anders was after when it came to their relationship.

Anders helped himself up, leaning against the wall like a drunk man. The night had fallen. He had to go back to his spouse now: be calm and composed in the face of John’s stubbornness and tempestuous nature. He had to set it straight with his husband. He was not exactly looking forward to it, but he would not be able to avoid another unpleasant discussion, so better get down to business right away.  Was he not born under the spirit of speech? Was he not supposed to be the living incarnation of Bragi, the Norse God of poetry? The task should be easy, but he was positive that even Bragi had never encountered such challenge. John’s heart was wounded by the guilt of hundreds of deaths. Anders had to find a way to mend it before it got gangrened as well.

Anders wanted to go back to the cabin, but just as he took that decision, suddenly he couldn’t. Voices and the sounds of trotting horses outside the mill made him stop in his tracks on his way to the door and retreat in the shadows next to the window. “ _Shit.”_

He hoped the riders were just passing, but soon, it became obvious that it was not the case. The riders (two men, as far as what Anders could judge) had dismounted and taken their horses to the front of the mill, just next to the door. Fortunately, they had not entered the building and after they had tied the horses there, they walked around to reach the other side. Now they were busy making a camp fire not far from the window next to which Anders was still hiding.  

The two men were chatting in the North Hills tongue and soon, the smell of smoke reached Anders. Normally, the sound of the waterfall would have covered the men’s voices and make it impossible for Anders to follow their conversation, but another stone wall outside muffled the tumbling water noises and made the voices carry clearly through the window.

In the dark, Anders eyed the door. If he didn’t startle the horses outside, he could probably get away without being noticed. Anders made a few steps toward the door, but the unexpected arrival of a third rider threw a spanner in his works and forced him to recede to his hiding place once more.

“You could have waited for me!” was the third rider’s reproach to the two others who answered to the accusation with careless laughter. The third addition to the party had a voice that hesitated between high-pitched and low tones: a boy on the verge of becoming a man.

“Stop whining, Blair, and put your horse with the others,” one of the two other, older men ordered the boy.  When he had done as asked, Blair joined them around the campfire and soon, a new smell, much more enticing than smoke, got to Anders’ nostrils: roasting meat. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled. The things he would do for food...

“You reckon it’s safe to stay here for the night?” Blair asked with a worried quiver in his voice.

The others laughed. “Who are you afraid of, the witcher?”

Anders’ heartbeat took a leaping halt. He had thought, or rather hoped, that he would never hear that name again.

“I ain’t afraid of anybody,” the boy protested. “Anders Mitchell’s dead anyway.”

“ _If only they knew”,_ Anders couldn’t help thinking.

“That’s what the rumors say,” one of men argued, “but Lord Duncan has a different take on it. He says that since he’s one of them, Johnson-Mitchell had joined the invaders and he is helping them. It had always been his plan, even before he married Lord Mitchell and bewitched him.”

“Johan Johnson, the old fool,” the other grumbled, with his unquiet, grating voice, “he should have drown him when he was still a brat. That’s a pity the Scarecrow had not managed to poison him when he was in Brastàl.”

“Who’s the Scarecrow?” Blair asked his elders.

“Not ‘who’, but ‘what’,” the annoying one corrected.  

The other man, the calmest of the three, hastened to explain: “The Scarecrow, my lad, is a secret organization that works to eliminate the sorcerers and the worshippers of the ancient gods who hide among us and threaten the North Hills.”    

 _“The Scarecrow…”_ Anders repeated in mind. He remembered the actual scarecrow George told him about: the one that had been burned next to a destroyed bridge on the road between Brastàl and Somerled, with a threatening sign around its neck. That warning, the burning of the Mitchell’s boat and the poisoning attempt with the candied almonds… there really was some kind of organized conspiracy behind those acts after all. Lady Mitchell, George and Annie: he had left them in Brastàl at the mercy of those fanatics.

“The members of the Scarecrow: who are they working for then?” the boy asked.

“No one knows. They have powerful protectors, apparently, and I bet Lord Duncan has a hand in it.”

“The whole arm, if you ask me.”  

The conversation took a pause, long enough for them to munch on their meat. Anders had not moved. Spying was a dangerous business, but it could be a fruitful one.

“Do you think we’ll win the war, Bhaltair?” Blair questioned. “Do you think we’ll get to send the nomads and the invaders back to where they came from?” There was a mix of hope and worry in his voice.

“We will,” the named Bhaltair replied with confidence.

“I think you are too optimistic,” the other man disputed. “The clans are divided. The Douglas and the Johnsons call Duncan an usurper and still claim to be loyal to John Mitchell. The Keirs and the Blackwoods think Mitchell dead, but they’ll side with the Johnsons because of matrimonial alliances. Lord MacGregor and Lord MacCallum are Duncan’s lap dogs, so we already know where their allegiance lie. What’s left of the Fergusons will also side with him since Duncan is generous enough to shelter them in his castle. The Nomads and the invaders only have to be patient and take the country while the clans of the East and the clans of the West are too busy fighting each other.”

“You’re underestimating Lord Duncan,” Bhaltair defended him. “He knows what a threat the invaders are. He has already started building an army with conscripts from the Mitchells’ land and with the mountains’ shepherds: you know, those paupers who bring their livestock every summer to make them graze in our hills and never pay a damn coin of taxes.”

“An army of shepherds: I can’t see that win a war,” Blair remarked.  

“They are getting a training in Bailtean, and Duncan’s men managed to recreate the invaders’ crossbows. They say that even a child can fire those,” Balthair said.  

It turned out that, at least, that was something Anders had not bluffed about in his talk to convince Michele to help them escape: the North Hillers had truly found a way to replicate the enemy’s weapons.  

A thoughtful silence had fell around the fire as a flask of ale was passed from hand to hand.  Anders took it as his cue to leave.

He sneaked to the door and tiptoed outside. The horses turned their heads to look at him, unimpressed by his presence.  The coast was clear: the three men were at the opposite side of the sawmill. Anders only had to follow the stream and get away, careful not to make too many branches crack.

He should have left as fast as possible and not look back, but Bhaltair’s and his companion’s horses: two tall, strong and healthy animals, a brown and a black one, had attracted his attention. He hesitated. These would make the trip to Rosecliff much shorter and less exhausting for him and his sick husband. The horses were already saddled and still had their bridle on. That was too good an opportunity not to take. But there were risks as well, and they were real. Anders was unarmed. If he was discovered, he had no chance. They were three against one. The thought conjured an image of the thieves who had tried to rob and rape him in the ruins near Brastàl. He clenched his fists and chased the nausea that came with the memory. He should leave those horses alone and run back to the cabin at once. But John was ill and getting weaker by the days. He was trying to hide it, but Anders was no fool. His husband needed that surgery soon, and probably even sooner than what Michele had predicted. The hygienic conditions of their current travelling had accelerated the deterioration of his health with worrisome speed.

Was there a way to steal those horses and lead them away without alarming their owners? The constant sound of the waterfall would help: but the woods were full of branches that would crack under the horses’ heavy hooves. Risk taking was more John’s thing than Anders’, who tended to avoid risks as if they were mortal enemies. But desperate circumstances called for desperate measures, and sometimes, even your worst enemies turned out to be useful.

Nearby, next to the stream, was some long, dried grass and Anders moved to that spot to gather a few good handfuls of it. He brought them back to the two horses who were too happy to be allowed to chew on some hay. He stuffed the rest of the dried grass into his pockets for later use. Now that Anders had got their mouths occupied, he hoped it would be enough to prevent them from neighing. Fingers slick with nervous sweat, Anders undid the knots of the two horses’ bridles from the wooden plank to which they had been tied. There was no way back now.  

The horses followed him without a fuss as he guided them into the stream. Anders had figured out that it was the best way to leave on the sly:  next to a waterfall, the sounds of splashing water would be less suspicious that the one of branches cracking in the woods. Anders had water mid-calf and the used leather of his boots was not not impermeable anymore. The water was freezing and soothing at the same time, but Anders didn’t really pay any attention to the sensation. He was afraid to see the men appear from around the building and catch him in the act.

Giving the exorbitant price of a horse, even a labor one, horse theft was a grave offense according to the North Hills law: the most severe crime against propriety. If he was caught red-handed, Anders could spend several years in jail, and from what he had heard, he risked more than just imprisonment by being captured. Even given the fact he had not always acted in an ethical way during his life, Anders had still never done anything illegal. He held to his status as a nobleman too dearly to go against the law. But just now, it was hard to care and feel any guilt for his actions. The only thing on his mind was the relief those horses would give to his and John’s abused legs, and how much quicker they would reach their destination. It was all that mattered.

He hastened to guide the horses upstream as fast as his legs and the current allowed him. Anders dreaded that the third horse, the boy’s one, left behind and seeing his buddies go, would neigh and betray him, but such thing didn’t happen.

The square contours of the sawmill were out of sight and the sound of the waterfall so faint now that Anders was not sure he was still able to hear it or if it that swishing was the one of the wind in the trees.  

Anders guided the horses out of the water and the black one helped itself with the dried grass he had in his pocket. The horses were docile: exactly what Anders needed and taking them away had been as easy as stealing acorns from a blind pig.

When he arrived at the cabin, Anders tied the horses to a nearby tree, walked to the door and got in without wasting a second in hesitation.   

A tall silhouette stood in the dark, wrapped in Anders’ cloak. The Aklànder didn’t even have to see John’s expression to know that he was not happy.  

“Where were you?” John asked. “It’s dangerous out there! I expected you’d be reasonable enough to come back before dusk: I was mistaken it seems.”

The patronizing tone made Anders’ anger resurface.  “Oh, do I have a curfew now?” he ironized. He headed to the fireplace to collect some items that would be useful on the road: the hare in its bundle, the old frying pan and the supplies to light a fire. “I’m six years your eldest and I lived thirty one years of my life without needing you to watch my back,” Anders reminded him. “I can handle myself quite well, thank you very much.”

John, however, wasn’t done with reprimands. “In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t your bedroom in Aklànd: this is a war zone,” he said, stepping closer.      

“I think I get it now,” Anders snapped. He got up and turned around to find himself face to face with John. “The reason for all that brooding:  it’s more about your wounded pride than your wounded hand, isn’t it? You can’t stand the fact you’re no longer the alpha male and the mighty protector and provider. You can’t bear the thought of being under _my_ protection, of having to depend and rely on _me_ as well, is that it?”

John kept frowning and staring, but did not answer.

“Well, I have news for you, my friend, at some point you’re going to have to get off your high horse,” Anders added. “But, right now, I’m going to have to ask you to get on a horse, actually.”

Clueless, John followed his spouse outside and he couldn’t hide his astonishment when he saw the two horses there. “Where did you get these?”

“I borrowed them,” Anders replied as he shoved the objects he had carried out the cabin in the leather pocket under the flap of the brown horse’s saddle. He had lied knowing that his husband would not believe him.

John approached the darker animal and inspected it with an expert eye, patting its shoulder and running his fingers through the impeccable, black mane. “I guess the owner is not aware of that borrowing.”

“You can put it that way,” Anders admitted, untroubled. The brown horse took a step back and shook its head with a snort when Anders sat in the saddle, but the change of rider didn’t trouble the animal much.  

Imitating his spouse, John grasped the pommel with his unharmed hand and mounted. “You’re going to get us in trouble,” he admonished Anders as they made the horses trot out of the clearing and follow a path to the West.      

Anders shrugged. “We already are.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer to the end of that season, guys. *sniff* Thanks for your comment and your support. :)


	16. You Don’t Get to Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was dumb enough to think you came back because you loved me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Katyushha for the betaing.  
> Dragon4488 being quite busy these days, there won't be any illustration for this chapter, but I'm still sending her my love for her support and all the other amazing art she did so far for that story.

 

 

_The candle flame flickered and struggled against a sudden air draft of an unknown source. The little light was ready to surrender and disappear in a streak of smoke, but a pale hand cupped the space around it like a fortified wall. The flame held good and stood straight at the end of the wick again. In the halo of light coming from the candle appeared a once beautiful face that worry and grief had marked for good. “Do you have the key?”_

_The pressing, whispered question was answered by another feminine voice: a youthful one. That other voice made for joy and laughter, but there was neither of those in it. “Yes, my lady. I have it here.”_

_The key was inserted into the lock and the door creaked open and was promptly closed after the two women entered the room that smelt of mold and stagnant water._

_Not wasting any time, they searched for a specific piece of furniture: a heavy oaken cabinet.  “Pull with your arms, not your back,” Lady Mitchell instructed as they moved it away from the wall, “or else you could hurt the baby.”_

_Annie nodded and gritted her teeth. At five months of pregnancy, it was a considerable effort and it could indeed be dangerous for the foetus, but they had no other option now. This was better than staying here and risk_ _ing_ _getting assassinated by the Scarecrow or just sentenced to death by another of Duncan’s arbitrary decisions._

 _The new master of Brastàl suspected that Lady Mitchell was not a_ _s_ _loyal to him as she had first claimed. He was not keen anymore on eating from the lies she served him day after day. She knew that this lie would not preserve her for long. Lady Ann had promised to her son-in-law that she would act submissive with Duncan in order to save her life, but Duncan was no fool and she was tired of dishonoring the memory of her son by taking part in this masquerade._

_There was also the fact that Duncan had noticed that one of the unmarried maids was pregnant. Questioning the other members of the castle staff, he had gotten to learn that Lord Anders had spent a lot of time and even shared his meals with Annie Sawyer._

_There was also rumors that she had been sharing her master’s bed as well. Duncan had come to the obvious conclusion that she was carrying Anders’ bastard child. He would certainly not let the abomination that_ _was dwelling_ _in Annie’s womb see the light of day. The handmaiden had not said anything about the identity of the real father. One way or another, she was carrying a Johnson, and Duncan didn’t intend on letting his enemy clan reproduce too much. Annie had kept quiet, but she was afraid. That’s why her mistress and she had decided that the time had come to escape by the tunnel._

_Scary was the walk into the narrow dark tunnel and even scarier and straining was the climb out of the well, but they had managed to make it out of the castle. What they did not expect was to be intercepted and captured by armed scouts nearly as soon as they stepped out of the water well. Annie tried to escape but one of the scouts shoved her to the ground. She landed on her stomach with a moan of pain._

_Lady Mitchell tried to parley with them, but they did not seem to understand the North Hills language at all. Tears_ _were running_ _down Annie’s face as the warriors made their prisoners walk through the woods for about two hours._

_They reached a camp, hidden far into the forest. There were many more warriors there, some of whose pale hair and blue eyes resembled much to Anders’._

_They were brought to the center of the camp, in front of a large tent. From there emerged a short, blond man. He gauged Lady Mitchell and her maid with a reptilian smile._

_“Well, well, who do we have here?” he said. His heavy accent was decidedly foreign, nothing like they had ever heard before._

_“I am Lady Mitchell of Brastàl,” the noblewoman replied, straightened her shoulders, dignified and unafraid. “Who are you and what are you doing on my land?”_

_“I should have guessed who you were. The resemblance with your son is striking,” the man commented, leaving the Lady mute with stupefaction.  “I’m most happy I had left some scouts near the end of that tunnel. It finally paid off since I have the honor to get such an eminent guest in my humble camp.”_

_“Ahh,” was Annie’s exclamation of pain. Lady Ann snapped her head around to look at her. The young woman’s hand was clenched at her lower stomach as a damp, red patch grew larger at the front of her light grey dress. “Oh, no! Annie!” the lady exclaimed. She caught the handmaiden and cradled her into her arms. She had lived through it herself too many times not to know what was going on. Annie was losing the baby._

_“Where is my son?” Lady Ann yelled at the blond man. “What did you do to him? Who told you about the tunnel? Nobody knew, except John and his husband! Answer me!” she ordered as Annie wept in her arms._

_“You really want to know who betrayed you?” he asked her, with a smile._

_“Answer me!” she repeated._

_The stranger reached inside his coat for a small, oval object: a locket. He opened it to show her the portrait inside. ‘Here is the man who betrayed you and your clan. It’s –“_

 

“Anders!”

John’s voice snapped him out of his horrible day dream.

“What?” Anders asked. He glanced above his shoulder at his spouse whose horse was walking behind him. He had not noticed how hard he had been gritting his teeth. His jaw hurt when he spoke.

“We should find a place to stop. The horses are tired,” John pointed out. He looked awful himself:  his lips colorless and his face damp with cold sweat. Under the hood of the cloak he had borrowed from Anders, his eyelids were leaden with fatigue. He kept his arm angled across his chest and his bandaged hand hidden into his unbuttoned coat.

Anders agreed to John’s demand for a pause in their travelling. They had ridden all night and had used the opportunity of the morning light to trot and gallop on the road, trying to cover as many miles as they could. But now, they had slowed the pace again. The sun was reaching its apex. Both the horses and the riders were worn out, thirsty and ravenous.

His own state of pessimistic exhaustion had brought Anders down a rather dark train of thought. This nightmarish vision of a probable future had not ceased to plague him since he had told Herrick about the tunnel, and even more so since he had learnt about the existence of the Scarecrow. It made him fear the worst for those he had left behind in Brastàl.

The Aklànder looked ahead to scan the landscape offered to his eyes. White patches of snow remained at the tops of the highest hills. On the slopes of the bare hills, the heather plants displayed a bland shade of pink, keeping their fiery colors for the more deserving summer weather.  In the valley, nothing had really started to grow except pale green crops of winter rye, each field enclosed by hedgerows of leafless trees and hawthorn shrubs. Each side of the road, fences had been built for the peasants to drive their sheep and cattle and prevent the animals from straying from the herd and into the wheat cultures.

At a crossroad, an old wooden sign indicated the village of Alclune, three miles ahead. They avoided that direction and chose to give a wide berth to the village. They were on Douglas land and that clan was John’s relatives, but the two travelers were also horse thieves and wished for their presence to stay as unnoticed as it could be.

Past the fields and the farms, the road they took was built on top of an embankment and meandered through swamps and ponds. In those uncultivated marshlands, little mounds created islands invaded by trees.  

The weather had been cold since sunrise and now, the landscape was obscured by light, late-winter snow. The damp snowflakes melted nearly as soon as they touched the ground, except the ones that clung to the wool of their clothes. Anders wiped one that landed on the corner of his eye and he pulled a fold of his kilt out from his belt to cover his head.

A roe deer alerted his females of the riders’ approach with a guttural bark and the three deer pushed off with elegant leaps through the reeds that bent under the rising wind. The direction they took as they ran away was what attracted Anders’ attention to one of the marshlands’ “islands”, where a circle of standing stones guarded the edges of willow and alder woods.

He pulled on the reins, forcing his horse to a halt.

Standing in the North Hill’s landscapes since time immemorial, stone circles had a bad reputation. The fear of them was tenacious and there were more stories about them than human memory could recall. A sheep that wandered into a stone circle was believed to turn into a wolf during the night and slaughter the rest of the herd. Likewise, cattle would turn into bears and pigs into wild boars. Horses notoriously went blind after grazing the grass that grew around such stones. Pregnant women who entered one of those circles gave birth to deformed, stillborn babies, men got suicidal, children caught deadly diseases and young girls had seen all their teeth falling out. Every land in the North Hills had different stories of people who had approached standing stones and paid for their recklessness.

In Aklànd, the most popular one was the misadventure of a man named Argus Innis who was coming back to his village, one night after having partied in the city. Too drunk to follow the road, he collapsed and fell asleep in the middle of a stone circle. In the morning, gone completely crazy, he went back home only to murder his wife and three children. That tale had given cold shivers to Anders when he was a teen. Mike had narrated it one night of full moon as the Johnson family gathered around the hearth of Aklànd’s castle’s Great Hall.

But now, seventeen years later, the sight of the motionless, grey forms was still an unpleasant one, but Anders’ practical mind was now stronger than his chariness.

John made his horse stop next to his.

“We should stop here,” Anders suggested, making a chin gesture toward the stones. Peasants were considerably more superstitious than he was, and if they noticed any movement from afar, they wouldn’t dare approach for fear to be cursed by the ancient gods or to fall victim of some fairy tricks. “Nobody will dare disturb us up there.”

“You are saying that we should stop by the standing stones,” John repeated, incredulous, clearly wondering if his spouse was in his right mind.

Anders looked at him an eyebrow arched. “What are you afraid of?”

John remained silent and he stared at the suggested resting place with a wary expression. He was conflicted between suspicion and tiredness.

“People who worshipped the old gods put those big pebbles there, but may I remind you that you’ve wedded someone who is supposed to be the living incarnation of a Norse god. Trust me, honey, if you had to be cursed, it would have already been done,” Anders remarked, in order to put his mind at ease.  

“If you say so,” John muttered, still on his guard. He chose to follow his husband’s lead nonetheless.

They made their horses cross the bog, careful not to stay stuck into the mud and peat. They reached the dryland and went around the circle of stones. They were daring enough to approach it, but avoided to actually step inside.

Anders was the first one to dismount. They have been riding for long hours and walking the ground gave him a weird and aching sensation, as if his legs had taken an unnatural angle.

When John got down of his own saddle, Anders hastened to pin him back against the black horse’s shoulder. The only way John would let him check on him was if he was cornered and had no choice. That was the strategy Anders adopted.

John looked stunned at first but said nothing. They were so close their breaths mingled in the cold air. In sync, their gazes dropped to the other’s mouth, as if they were about to kiss, but they did not.

“How does your hand feel?” Anders asked.

“It hurts, but not more than usual.”

Anders put the back of his hand to his husband’s forehead. “You look feverish, but your skin is cool,” he noticed with a little relief. He touched John’s temple and lingered there. The brunet’s long fingers closed around his wrist.

“Don’t push me away,” Anders said. He wanted it to sound like an order, but failed to put any authority in his voice. Instead, it came out as a plea.

“I’m not,” John objected in a whisper. He brought Anders’ fingers to his mouth and kissed them. “I’m not pushing you away,” he repeated in a sigh. He kept his fresh lips pressed to Anders’ knuckles and closed his eyes for a moment.

“What happened last night-“  

“Was not your fault,” John interrupted him.

 _“I know it wasn’t my fault,”_ Anders wanted to reply, but he kept quiet and listened to what his spouse had to say.

“I’ve been unfair to you and for that I am deeply sorry,” John apologized. “Since the beginning of the war, you’ve shown nothing but loyalty and compassion toward me. I know my words made you believe I’ve been doubting your attachment to me. I’m not doubting it, _a ghraid_. I’m just scared.” He kissed Anders’ fingers again and let go of them in order to cup his jaw. He ran the pad of his thumb on the ginger, scruffy cheek. “You know I can’t stay away and watch from afar as Herrick burns what’s left of our motherland. I’ll be part of the North Hills destiny, for better or for worse: that’s unescapable. This war isn’t over and I don’t even want to imagine what you will still have to endure if you stay by my side. I never wanted that for you. This isn’t a life, and it’s not even one you chose of your free will,” John reminded him. “Trust me, I could easily be blinded by my feelings for you and keep you with me, but I also love you enough to offer you your freedom, should you choose to accept it.”

Anders could understand why his husband wished to see him safe and far from all the horrors and cruelty of war. He wished he could be preserved from them as well.

“It doesn’t have to be a divorce,” John went on. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be permanent. It can only be a temporary separation, until the end of the war, whatever its issue will be. Please tell me that at least, you’re going to think about it,” he begged.

Anders gulped. “I am going to think about it.” He knew it was what his chieftain wanted to hear.

“Thank you,” John breathed. He brought their foreheads together and laced their fingers. They stayed there, looking down at their joined hands for a few minutes, until Anders’ stomach reminded him of his primary needs with insistance.

“We need to eat, and drink, and rest.”

It had stopped snowing and the wind was now a light, but still icy breeze.

One of the horses’ reins in his left hand and the other’s looped around his right arm, John led the animals to a nearby pond to let them drink while Anders gathered branches to start a fire.  Then, John unsaddled the horses. He groomed them and rubbed their backs with handfuls of grass. He kept an eye on them and the other eye on the surroundings, with the grave air of a guard on duty and his hand resting on his battle axe.

As he was feeding twigs and branches to the smoking fire, Anders was distracted by his husband’s tall bearing. His gaze always kept coming back to John’s long legs and large feet firmly anchored to the ground. There was a hint of desire in those stealthy glances. Anders missed the sensation of an intimate skin on skin contact. After such an emotional and physical strain, he felt a deep need for it.  He had to put this urge on a leash, because John did not wish for that kind of proximity right now, which was understandable giving the nature of his injury.

The Norse sword was the only sharp object Anders had in his possession. This tool was not adapted to such a task, but he still managed to use the blade to skin and gut the hare properly. As their dinner cooked over the fire, on an improvised spit made of green, willow wood, the two men sat side by side with their back to one of the large, flat stones. They shared silent companionship and also a bottle of ale that John had found in the black horse’s saddle. It was not even a good ale, but to Anders, who had been craving for any kind of alcohol since the moment they had left Carraig, it was the most delicious thing in the world. The smell of roasting meat filled the air and tickled their nostrils. They had to be patient, but Anders was so desperate for food that he had to battle with himself not to eat the hare half-raw.

As John passed the bottle over to him, their fingers touched. John shuddered at the contact and Anders gave him a worried look. The weak smile he got as a response was everything but convincing. Anders’ worst fear was to detect the first signs of fever in his partner. At least, in the Nomads’ camp, they had Michele to help. Here, with only Anders to take care of him, another fit of fever would be fatal. There wasn’t much he could do besides hoping that they would get to Rosecliff on time.

The black horse’s grazing path had brought it to its new master’s side and the horse gave a gentle push to John’s shoulder with its nose, batting long lashes.

“That lad has taken a shine to you,” Anders teased. The ale and the perspective of a meal had lightened his mood considerably.

“Hm,” John answered with an absent mind. Still staring into the flames, John scratched the gelding behind the ears and carded his fingers through the mane that fell between the black, soulful eyes.

Anders gave a small kick to John’s boot with his own to catch his attention. “It’s not surprising he’s drawn to you. You always loved and understood horses, even before you got to have one of your own.”

John looked at him. “How do you know that?”

Anders took a casual swig from the bottle. “James used to praise your skills with those animals,” he replied.  

“James…” John repeated, confused for a second. “You mean my father?”

“Who else?”

“You spoke with my father?” John asked with raised brows.

“Yes! I did, many times!” Anders said. “We had long conversations every time he came visiting.”

“I … I didn’t know,” John stuttered, taken aback. He took the bottle Anders handed him and swallowed his surprise with a gulp of ale. “I knew he had seen you a few times, and I should have guessed he had spoken to you, but I always assumed that-”  

“You assumed that every time the Great Lord came to Aklànd, we never got any real contact because I’d avoid him like plague, refuse to speak to him or even acknowledge his presence because he was your father, is that it?” Anders supplied in a flat voice.  

John cleared his throat. “Something along those lines, yes.”

“Well, you are right. That’s what I tried to do, at first. I tried to ignore him, but he had other plans for me, and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about the Mitchells in my life, it’s that they’re bloody tenacious,” he stated. “Your father had warned me you’d be just the same.”

“And?” John asked with a hint of a smirk as he waited for Anders’ verdict.

Anders returned the crooked smile. “If anything you’re worse.”

John chuckled, shaking his head fondly and silence fell on the standing stones. The black horse, that didn’t get enough attention for its liking anymore, had joined its brown companion in a patch of green grass a little further toward the edge of the woods. Anders checked the cooking of the hare and turned it on its spit.

John was pensive again. He plucked a grass blade and rumpled it between his thumb and forefinger. “My father never said a word of that friendship.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to taint the first impression you’d have about me or influence it beforehand,” Anders speculated. He smoothed the front of his kilt and stretched his legs.    

“But he had no problem influencing yours.”   

Anders shrugged. “He had his reasons to act that way, I suppose. You weren’t as rebellious as I was at the prospect of that marriage. You didn’t need as many encouragements.”

John gave his consort a side-glance. “Why didn’t you tell me that you and Father were that close?”

“I guess the subject just didn’t come up. We never spoke much, you and me. I spent the first moon of our marriage pouting, and then, all we did was screw,” Anders deadpanned.

John nearly chocked on his sip of ale. “That is not true!” he protested, stung to the quick.

“Of course that’s not true! I’m just messing with you,” Anders corrected with a laugh. His husband’s offended expression was a little comical. “Although we did screw a lot. But that’s not something I’m going to complain about.”

The outraged arch of John’s eyebrows had disappeared, but he kept on staring at Anders with a curious expression.  “What else did my father tell you... about me?”

“He said that when we would meet, by the spirits’ will, everything would set at its right place.”

“It did feel that way, when I met you,” John remembered. A gray layer of sorrow veiled his eyes. “But now look at us! What would my father think of this?” He made a gesture to show their ragged clothes, used boots and the wild surrounding.  “What would he think of me?” he added with a sigh. He rested his head back on the stone and shut his eyes, discouraged.

“James would say that if we hadn’t been together, things would have gone way worse than they did,” Anders answered, stirring the fire with a long branch. “He would probably add that we should quit mourning what we lost and can’t retrieve.”

John’s shoulders relaxed but he kept his eyes shut. “You’re speaking just like him right now, you know?” he commented.

“Well, it’s never been in my nature to wring my hands and angst about things, but maybe your father also shaped me more than I thought. He was the closest thing I ever had to a friend and the only one who seemed genuinely interested to know who I was and what I liked. He was a funny old man. I was never bored when he was around.”

“I can believe that. My father knew how to lighten the mood. He had a great sense of humor.”

“And the loudest laugh ever,” Anders added.  

“That’s true,” John murmured with a nostalgic smile. He opened his eyes and looked at the sky. The grey clouds were a perfect background to play some good memories. “I miss him.”

Anders reached a hand and gently squeezed John’s thigh through his kilt. “Aye. Me too.”

They gave each other a sad smile. John’s one was teary. He circled Anders’ shoulders with his arm, pulled him against his side and placed a firm kiss on top of his head.

They sat there, close, looking at the fire’s flame for a while, until suddenly, something alarmed John. He took his arm from around Anders and elbowed him in the ribs. “There is something. I saw something in the woods.”  

“Something or someone?” Anders asked.

“I don’t know, I just saw movement out of the corner of my eye and then it was gone,” John whispered, nervous. “I knew we shouldn’t have stopped here.”

Anders scanned the trees and squinted but he failed to see anything. “You sure you’re not imagining things?” he asked.  But then, both the horses stopped grazing and lifted their heads high. Their ears pointed in the direction of the woods and they held their tail elevated. Something had alerted them as well and Anders was now ready to give more credit to his husband’s observation. He reached for the Norse sword. John was already up, battle axe in hand and he had put the black horse’s bridle around his arm to prevent it from running away. Anders did the same with the brown horse as they scrutinized the woods, muscles tense and ready to react.

John’s horse let out an anxious neigh.

There was some shuffling noises in the forest and Anders’ grip tightened around his weapon.

A red fox trotted out of bushes, past the two astonished men and to the fire where it sat, licking its lips like it had been invited for dinner.

“Tiolam!” Anders exclaimed in surprise, dropping the sword and letting go of the horse that John hastened to catch by the reins.

At the call of her name, the vixen turned her head to look at Anders and when he dropped on his knees, she ran to him and climbed to his chest to lick his chin. He let himself fall onto his back in the grass, laughing in amazement. Tiolam crawled up to his neck and licked every inch of his face she could reach, letting out happy, snorting grunts.

“That cannot be her…” John trailed off in disbelief.  “That fox is way too big.”

“She was but a cub when you left,” Anders said as he ruffled the soft, red and white fur. “She changed a lot since then.” There was no doubt it was Tiolam. First of all, no other fox would have reacted that way and Anders had recognize right away the marked black spots, half-moon shaped, from where her whiskers grew and the white patch on her throat that looked like a dove with open wings.   

Anders inspected her. Her fur was thick and shiny. She seemed well-nourished and healthy. She was, in fact, in a far better shape than John and himself.

John took the precaution to tie the horses to a small tree and when the couple sat next to the fire again, he outstretched his hand slowly toward the vixen. Tiolam gave John’s fingers a wary sniff before she retreated. She trotted around Anders and lay down, pressed against his opposite thigh and she kept on eyeing John with suspicion.

“I don’t think she recognizes me,” he observed.  

“She was still young last time she saw you. You have to give her time.”

“Do you think it was her, who saved me from the hound dogs?”

“I have no idea. And it’s not like she will reply if we ask her the question.”

Anders pulled the hare out of the fire and proceeded to bone it, not paying attention to the way the hot meat burned his fingers. Tiolam didn’t fail to show her interest.

“Is that it, huh? Is that the only reason why you came back: to have your meat cooked for you?” Anders accused his pet.

She yapped as an answer, stretched her neck and licked her lips again.

He rolled his eyes. “And I was dumb enough to think you came back because you loved me,” he told her, which didn’t prevent him from scratching her back fondly.

John and Anders devoured the hare, leaving to the fox the bones and the guts that Anders cooked for her on the hot coals.

The large standing stone protected them from the wind and they took turns to sleep a few hours each while the other stood guard. Invigorated a little, they saddled the horses and left at dusk, with Anders’ pet fox following behind.

Tiolam didn’t bring anything from her hunts for the two days of travel that followed. Their quest for food led the riders to a road that linked two neighboring villages. Anders hid with the horses while his husband waited on the side of the road, wrapped in Anders’ woolen cloak. John was confident that his emaciated features and bearded face made him look more like a beggar than a clan lord. With such disguise, he got to speak with two young peasant girls and traded a loaf of bread for the set of keys from Carraig castle, which metal could be easily resold to a blacksmith. The bread was divided between him and his husband and eaten to the last crumb.

During those two days, John tried to hide his soiled bandage, the trembling and weakness of his legs and the ashen shade of his face from Anders.

Anders pretended not to notice, because there was nothing he could do.

 

***

Anders smelled the sea before he could see it. He made his horse stop and inhaled deeply in the salty breeze, eyes closed. The wind carried in its core the iodine scent of seaweed, sand and fish.  The coast, Aklànd… home. That’s what it smelled like.

John had grown up too far inland. That sensation meant nothing to him. “What is it?” he asked  Anders.

The blond man grinned. “The ocean,” he simply said. They had to be less than a mile away from the coast. He pressed his heels to the horse’s flanks with successive clicks of his tongue and urged it to gallop across the moor. He knew John and the fox would follow.

His exhilarated heart took the same crazy beat as the thumping of hooves on the hard ground.  He pushed the horse up a low hill and slowed down. He distinguished the infinite, dark blue line of the ocean. John met him and together, they galloped until they reached the high, grey cliffs overlooking the sea. They were welcomed there by the hiccupping complaints of the seagulls that flew in wide circles over the peaks of foaming waves.

“That’s beautiful,” John said softly.

The day was declining. Sparse apertures through the clouds let the sunrays filter in and caress the sea like the long, luminous fingers of some divinity.

They couldn’t approach the edge of the cliff any further because of the thorny bushes.

The town of Rosecliff had gotten name after those wild roses that grew along the coast. Every summer, an army of women, known as the “Rosies” hiked along the cliffs to collect the pink and white flowers. They filled their aprons with the fragrant buds and emptied them into large baskets that caravans of donkeys carried to Rosecliff’s numerous distilleries. There, the roses were transformed into perfume. The distilleries also produced tinctures and medicine out of the other aromatic herbs and flowers that were cultivated in the fields surrounding the city. The harvest of the wild roses took place during the week of Rëlm, the first one of the summer. Anders and Tyrone had come by boat a few times to celebrate the beginning of the hot season in Rosecliff.

Anders had never been especially interested in the perfume, but distilleries also produced whisky. Moreover, he had always been eager to find some pleasurable company amongst the young Rosies and soothe the scratches of thorns on their wrists and legs with his lips.

These memories seemed so distant now, and the rose bushes were flowerless. Their presence, though, was enough to indicate that they were getting closer to their destination. However, no trace of civilisation was in sight. Anders didn’t know if their off-road peregrinations had made them ride too far from Rosecliff to the North or the South. In other words, he had no idea in what direction they had to follow the coastline to reach the town.

Anders jumped down his horse and went to his husband’s rescue when he saw that John had a hard time dismounting. He looked like he was to slip off the saddle. Anders eased his fall and helped him back on his feet.

John moaned and gritted his teeth.

“What is it? Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” John replied. Then, seeing his lover’s expression, hastened to reassure him: “I’ll… I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be fine? Allow me to doubt it,” Anders voiced his concern.   

“I just need some rest... It’s alright, Anders. I promise I’m alright.”

Anders wished he was naïve enough to believe him. He helped John sit down next to an old pine stump. “Can you stay with the horses? I will go to the beach and see if I can find something edible down there. Then, I’ll start a fire.” He wrapped John in his cloak the best he could. “You stay here,” he ordered. “You don’t go anywhere.”

“I’ll be there when you come back,” John promised.  

“You better.”

Anders pressed a kiss in the dark curls before he left.   

With Tiolam hot on his heels, Anders walked along the cliff until he found a gentle sloping path that would assure him a safe descent to the sand of a cove.

Half-way down, he made an interesting discovery: a natural cave carved into the rock by the sea long ago and widened by human hands. As soon as he walked in, he knew he had entered a place with significance and history. It was spacious and surprisingly dry for something exposed to the ocean mists. Its ceiling was blackened with the sooth of the fire camps of thousands of years of human occupation. The fireplace at its center was cold, but light flakes of fresh ashes flied around his boot when Anders stepped in it. People had spent the night here only a few days ago. Other clues like a heap of animal bones and a broken-handle basket full of hay pointed all to the same conclusion.

Tiolam seemed very interested by the bones, but also to the pile of drift wood left in a corner of the cave. Some rodent must have made its nest underneath.

Anders’ eyes roamed the walls and the forms and symbols sculpted there. It confirmed his first intuition. This was not a vulgar cavern; it was a spirit cave.

The symbols were not exactly the same as the ones that could be found in the temples. There was something more primitive about them, but they had enough similarities so even Anders, who had spent very little time in temples during his life, could easily recognize them. There, at the bottom of the wall:  the blind owl of the spirit _Izee_ , there, the bull horns of _Odnì_ , and there, the vulva that represented the spirit of fertility. Hundreds of different symbols decorating the walls of the cave.

The scholars from the college of Aellyn had a theory that those symbols were in fact an ancient writing. Its logic and signification, however, had been lost in the windings of the North Hills history. The scholars, despite their hard work, had never been able to go even as far as determine if the symbols represented sounds, letters from a complex alphabet or if they were ideograms: each of them depicting an idea or a word of their own.

For the scholars of Aellyn, those symbols were an intellectual enigma: a code to crack. For the rest of the population, they were a proof of the existence of the spirits they worshipped. Spirits caves were believed to be places where the border between the human world and the land of spirits was so thin they could touch. Opposite-sex couples would spend their wedding night in a spirit cave to ensure fertility for their marriage and because babies who had been conceived in the secret of a spirit cave were supposed to be blessed with special abilities or skills.

There was a dozen of those caverns along the coast.  

It was not much the magic proprieties of the place that made Anders pleased with its finding, but rather the fact that this was an ideal shelter. They would be safe there and protected from the weather. They would have a fire and wouldn’t get bothered. People would stay away if they saw that the cave was occupied.  Nobody wanted to walk on a humping couple.

The news that Anders had found them a roof for the night filled John with a renewed strength.

“I’m actually surprised it doesn’t smell like sex. Imagine how many couples made babies in here,” Anders commented as they settled in the cave with the horses they had carefully led down the cliff’s path.

“Good for them,” John replied briskly. He emptied the basket of its hay on the ground for the horses to eat.   

“Don’t you want children anymore?” asked Anders, busy unpacking their scarce belongings. A few moons ago, he would have been relieved to know that John had renounced to the project of raising heirs, but now he dreaded a negative answer. It would be the sign that John had abandoned every one of his dreams and ambitions.

John let out an audible sigh. “I don’t think these are good times to even think of starting a family,” he reflected. “Maybe someday, when the dust settles. If I can keep the Norsemen away from Brastàl, my heirs would have something to inherit, but for now, nothing must be taken for granted.”  

Anders nodded in silence. He couldn’t deny the truth of those words. But as it was now, they were hardly able to sustain themselves, let alone children. Anders had not exactly warmed up to the idea of having a gaggle of clingy brats following him everywhere. On the other hand, he wanted John’s happiness.

But it would be absurd and useless to fill his head with such quandary now, not when they had more fundamental preoccupations: finding something to eat being the chief one. After he had lit a fire inside the small circle of rocks, Anders grabbed the empty basket.  He promised John he would be back before the night and he took the path leading to the beach.

Tiolam followed him, her little paws leaving prints in the damp sand. She made a point of sniffing any suspicious pebble or seashell on their way.

Anders had always lived close to the sea, but as a nobleman, he was way too rich to ever have to roam the beach in search of something to eat. When he was a young teen, the boys his age liked to spend their free time on the beaches of Apple Bay: making bonfires, collecting and cooking tasty molluscs and kissing girls in the shadows of the sera cliffs.  But Anders had had very little freedom during his youth, being under the thumb of the strict and loveless Lady Elizabet who wished to discourage any kind of initiative or curiosity in her step-son. The only things he had been allowed to learn were the sports that suited a clan heir, like hunting, and, more importantly, the fine art of being a pleasant companion and bed mate for the future Great Lord. How to survive in the wild had never been part of that teaching. But that had not prevent young Anders from observing the huskers who came to the castle’s courtyard to sale what they had gathered at low tide. That way, he got to learn what edible things could be found on a beach.

The tide was at its lowest and the sun setting when Anders walked back to the cave, barefoot in the sand. In the basket, he carried several blades of kelp seaweed, four big clams and three eggs stolen to some seabird’s nest, which had required a bit of climbing. He had taken off his boots and the waves that licked his feet were icy. They had a cicatrizing and numbing effect on the numerous blisters on his toes and heels.

The wind lifted the bottom of his coat and made it flap like a ship flag. Black clouds jousted in the twilit sky, bringing drizzle in their wake.

Anders found his husband’s boots, shirt and coat and also the cloak he had lent to him hanging on the branches of a beached tree.

Bare-chested, John was washing in the sea. The young man had the edge of his kilt tucked behind his belt so it would not get wet. He had water up to the knees, had removed his bandage and was bent over to wash the soiled fabric and his injured hand in the cleansing saltwater.   

He was facing seaward and didn’t notice Anders.

John splashed the cold water to his face and on his shoulders. His skin was paler than Anders had ever seen it. Once wet, it looked like the one of an ivory-colored fish. That paleness was a drastic contrast with the darkness John’s hair and also with the black ink of his shoulders’ tattoos. Still, Anders wanted to roam his hands across the broad expanse of skin and maybe insufflate some warmth and life back into that flesh.  But now, only the ocean spray and the harsh marine wind got to touch it.

As he watched John shaking the water off his hair like a black wolf, a sudden thought made Anders’ chest swell with pride, courage and a strange elation. He realised that if John decided to swim across the ocean, he would jump in the waves with him. If his husband chose to climb the mountains bare foot, Anders would take off his boots and follow him. If his lord had to reconquer his lands and fight against the clans of the East, the Nomads and Norse to do so, then Anders would take a spear and be there to fight by his side. He was ready to follow that man anywhere. But this time, it was not because Anders was afraid of being abandoned and having to fend for himself. No. This time, it was because he was determined to never abandon John, no matter what.  

John had finished washing, had wrapped his hand back in its bandage and, in the very last lights of the day, walked back to the sand with his shoulders straight despite the pain, cold and exhaustion. Even sick, even hurt, even in grief, he still looked strong: the kind of man who would die standing up. Anders felt privileged to be the one sharing his life and, at once, he truly understood what Master Sileas meant when he had advised him to “be humble”. Love, he discovered, had much to do with humility.

Anders handed his clothes over to him as John dried his chest with a fold of his kilt.

“I thought about your offer,” Anders declared gravely. “I can’t do what you asked of me: the divorce… the separation. Being left alone when you just got your hand chopped off; I wouldn’t even wish that on my worst enemy. In fact, I do wish that on Herrick,” he corrected himself, “but you understand my point.”

John’s head disappeared inside his shirt for a moment. “I do,” he replied, when he emerged from inside the piece of clothing.

Anders waited until his lord was fully clothed before he continued.  “I won’t leave you, even when after you will have recovered from the surgery. As for sex, you have every right to decide what you do with your own body – you can decide if you wish to be touched or not, but you don’t get to choose if I still have desires for you.”

The declaration left John tongue-tied for a long minute. He stepped closer and traced the tartan patterns of the kilt across Anders’ chest with the tip of his forefinger as he pondered. “That’s a very selfish thing for me to say, but I’m glad that you wish to stay with me,” John confessed. “I doubt I would have had the strength to let you go.”

Anders had a small smile. “I doubt you would have had the strength to make me leave.”

John drew him closer to his chest and they hugged each other in a tight embrace: as husbands, lovers, brothers in arms.  

Something over John’s shoulder attracted the blond man’s attention. They broke their embrace. “Look!” Anders told him, pointing his fingers at a point to the North. There was a light: too low to be a star and too bright to be only the window of some house lightened by candles.  

“That’s Rosecliff’s lighthouse,” Anders said. “We’ll be there tomorrow by nightfall.”

John couldn’t hide his relief. He took Anders’ hand and the light of the camp fire, another reassuring beacon in the night, guided them back to the cavern.

“Sea water tastes horrible,” John remarked as they walked up the beach.

“That’s not for drinking, you egg. It’s full of salt!”

“Aye. I figured that out pretty quickly,” he admitted, sheepish.    

 

***

The seaweed and the clams made a decent soup, barely ashes-free, and with the eggs cooked directly in the embers, it was enough to fill their shrunk stomachs. Tiolam had found something to content herself as well: some shapeless carcass that she dragged in and proceeded to chew up with dedication.

The drizzle had turned into a real downpour now. The plopping sound of rain dripping at the entry of the cave added to the ones of the waves of the rising tide dying on the shore and the soft crackling of the logs burning in the fire.  

Anders fetched an armful of driftwood from the corner of the cavern and dropped it down next to the fireplace. As he kneeled down to rekindle the flames, he could feel John’s gaze on his back. He threw a look and a knowing smile above his shoulder.

John was staring at him, seated with his back to the wall and his head ducked to the side. “Come here, you,” he said with an unexpected hint of playfulness. Anders let out a very unmanly squeal when an arm was hooked around his waist and he was pulled back onto John’s front. He obediently settled between parted legs and rested his head back on his husband’s shoulder, his temple against the side of John’s chin. Anders relaxed with a content sigh. John kissed his ear shell and traced a blond eyebrow with his lips. It felt good and familiar.

“All I want now is to go home,” John murmured, his breath ghosting over Anders’ hairline. “I want to see my mother, my friends, live in my castle and rule over my land. I have no other ambitions anymore.” He paused to kiss his temple again. “But even if I was to never see Brastàl again, I think that, with time, I would be able to find happiness again, as long as I still have you.”

“I hope so,” replied Anders, a lump in his throat. There was a real chance that John would never get to be lord of Brastàl again.

Abandoning the carcass she had cleaned up, Tiolam climbed on Anders’ lap.

He petted her lush coat as John tenderly rubbed his bearded cheek on his temple and face in-between kisses.

It was like the whole world had slowed down. With the moving, vivid shadows the firelight cast on the sculpted walls, Anders swore that, through his half-closed eyelids, he could see the symbols come alive: _Frec_ , the stag-spirit lifted his head and majestic antlers. The thistles of _Dòn_ softly blew in the wind. The pupil of the eye of _Crön_ , the spirit of longevity, shifted to observe him.

John uttered a low sound, and Anders’ first reflex was to try to pull away, thinking it was a moan of pain, but he couldn’t, since John’s arm was holding him, and he soon figured out he had been mistaken. It wasn’t a moan but a hum. John was humming a song. The notes were hesitant and out of tune. At some point, he added the lyrics to the notes, but in truth, he was more reciting the song as if it was a poem.

_“ Once a fair and handsome Seal Lord_

_Lay his foot upon the sand_

_For to woo the fisherman's son_

_And to claim his marriage hand_

_'I have come in from the ocean_

_I have come in from the sea_

_And I'll not go to the waves, love,_

_Lest ye come along with me.'  ”_

 

John’s deep voice, similar somehow to the raucous rumble of the waves crashing against the cliffs outside, vibrated through his chest and warmed Anders’ back. The consort closed his eyes and listened as John sang the response of the wooed fisherman to the Selkie lord:

 

_“ 'Lord, long have I loved you_

_As a Selkie on the foam_

_I would gladly go and wed ye_

_And be the master of your home_

_But I cannot go into the ocean_

_I cannot go into the sea_

_I would drown beneath the waves, love,_

_If I went along with thee.' “_

 

Anders surprised himself by waiting for the rest of the song, but it didn’t come. For a second, Anders thought his spouse had fallen asleep, but then, John spoke up: “My mother sang this song to me when I was little, among many other love songs she knew by heart.”

“No wonder you became such a sentimental softy,” Anders teased.

John didn’t try to defend himself.

The lyrics of the song were still tangled in Anders’ mind and wouldn’t let go, like seaweeds around a swimmer’s legs. He thought about the Seal Lord of the song, who could not survive on shore and about his human lover who would be robbed of his breath if he went underwater. If they stayed together, it meant certain death for at least one of them. He wondered how much John related to that tale.  “How does the story end?” he asked, curious.  

John’s voice was but a weak whisper.  “The fisher boy’s grandmother gives him a magic seal coat that transforms him into a selkie. He goes to the sea and gets to marry his seal lord,” he summarized. “I always loved that song. I did imagine, once or twice, when I was a young teen: me being in the role of the selkie and you being the fisherman’s son,” John confessed.

“Of course, you get to be the handsome lord and I’m the one smelling like herring,” Anders said in a chuckle. Freed from John’s embrace, he bent forward and grabbed a branch that he threw into the fire. “So, the fisher boy and the selkie: they get their happy ending, huh?”

“I wish I could have offered you one as well,” John said, his voice filled with regret. 

“It’s not too late.”  

***

 

On the morning, Anders found Tiolam curled up on John’s chest, a ball of red fur to protect his heart.

John quavered when Anders touched him.

The fever was back.

 

 

**To be continued…**

 


	17. Let the Morning Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me more than a month to update. I had health issues. Thus, I'd like to thank my husband for having typed on the computer for me when my shoulders were too painful.  
> A lot of hugs and love also to Katyushha for her friendship and encouragements. I wouldn't have gone that far if it wasn,t from her.  
> And also huge thanks to Drangon4488. the story would not be the same without her incredible art.

 

Josie MacArtney was only twenty years old the day she made two essential observations.  First, she realized that there wasn’t much difference between the action of stitching up a wound and the one of having sex with stranger men for money. Both took a lot of cold blood. Second and most importantly, people who were at the gates of death were never the most desperate ones. It’s their loved ones who watched them die who experienced despair in all its rawness. As such, those were the ones to be wary of.

Josie had spent her childhood in a tiny cottage house with so many brothers and sisters she even doubted anybody even noticed the day she took off. She found a job as a waitress at the Quigley Inn in Brastàl and every time customers offered to spend the night with her in her small, attic room for a silver coin, she accepted.

She felt no shame about trading her charms for money.  In fact, she didn’t feel anything: neither good nor bad. She was able to reach that sort of state where you watch yourself act from the outside as a neutral spectator: without judgment, without prejudice. It was not a numb state. On the contrary, it was one of a rare clarity of mind. She did not let sentiment interfere with her work, or even her life.

One evening, a fight broke in the inn’s tavern. Fights involving drunk customers were a common thing, but this one was to be the first link of a chain of events that would make her life take an unexpected turn.

Josie tried to intervene to break the fight before it got nasty, but she was shoved aside. One of the men reached for his belt and a knife shone in the candlelight. The aggressor fled and his opponent was left there with a long deep cut to the forearm and a stab wound to the shoulder. The victim’s brother shouted for anyone to go fetch a healer. Josie knew the healer would arrive too late. The man was losing a lot of blood already and everybody around were useless and as pale as linen cloths. The wounded man’s eyes had an expression of surprise, shock and pain and his brother had this desperate look she would come to know and recognize.

Josie had gotten to patch up injured sheep more than once on her parents’ farm. She went right to the fallen man to tend to his injuries. The brother tried to push her away in a protective gesture, but she dodged the strike and ignored him. She kneeled beside the stabbed man and with sharp, precise gestures, she ripped his shirt apart to uncover the wounds.  She applied pressure on them until the bleeding stopped and by the time Master Sileas arrived, she had already stitched up the forearm cut with the sewing kit she always kept with her.

The healer was impressed by the young waitress’ quick thinking and efficient intervention. He decided to take this talented, but illiterate prostitute under his wing and take her as an apprentice.

The next day, she sat in Master Sileas’ class, next to a six-year-old boy the old man had paired her up with. The first feeling she got was one of humiliation. Most of the master’s students were under the age of twelve. She felt like a giant in a village of little fairies. But the fairies were way smarter than she was. They already knew how to read and write and count. To Josie, the letters in the book the master had placed in front of her were like fancy drawings that didn’t mean anything. Master Sileas had taken her as a paid apprentice in his dispensary under the condition that she learned how to read and write. The best way to achieve that was to take her into his class with the children from the castle.

Her first lesson consisted in copying letters from a poetry book on a small chalkboard. At her first attempt, she broke the chalk pen in so many pieces that it was not usable anymore. She always had been a determined young woman, but the bite of failure stung so hard and quick that she felt tears misting her eyes. The chalkboard got blurry. She prevented the tears from pouring out with rapid blinking. Perhaps she was not fit for better than welcome greasy men between her used, yellow sheets after all.

That’s when she noticed the outstretched hand with a chalk piece on the middle of the small palm. The hand belonged to her young desk partner. She looked up at the boy’s face, framed with dark bouncing curls. The big eyes, the color of a whiskey bottle’s neck, shimmered with a mix of compassion and curiosity.

“Here, you can take my pen if you want. I always bring a spare one. I often shattered mine when I started,” he beamed.

Josie returned the smile, somehow encouraged by the child’s kind demeanor. She whispered a soft “thank you” and took the chalk piece cautiously.

“I was really bad at writing at first, but mommy told me I would get better with time, and she was right. Now, I can write all the alphabet, except the ‘b’ and the ‘d’. These are confusing,” the boy confided. “If you practice, you are going to get good at it, just like me.”

“Who’s your mother,” Josie asked him. She was being the curious one now.

“Everyone calls her ‘my lady’, but that’s not her real name. Her true name is Ann. That’s how my father calls her. And he gives her other names too, but I don’t understand what they mean, ” he explained in a hushed tone, because Master Sileas, after having helped the older children with their geometry, was walking their way.

The healer’s bushy eyebrows were furrowed in disapproval. “I know you would like to chat with our new friend, John Mitchell, but now is not the time,” he scolded.

The boy pursed his lips in discontent, but he apologized and returned to his book and chalkboard. Josie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the little curly head bent down over the desk: a head that belonged to the Great Lord’s heir.

She could not abandon. She had to prove she could have at least as much willpower as a six-year old, first heir or not.

Little John Mitchell had been right about practice and perseverance being the key to learning. Two years later, by dint of extreme diligence and after several sleepless nights of practice, she now read and wrote fluently. She was Master Sileas’ best apprentice. She mastered medicinal botanic, alchemical science and anatomy, but what made her passionate above all was surgery. She never felt more in her element. Bones sticking out of wounded flesh, fractured skulls: none of it made her flinch. The riskier and more complicated the surgery was, the more she jubilated.

Even when they weren’t studying together anymore, she remained very fond of the young Sir John with whom she also shared the same tutelary spirit.

When Master Sileas decided that there was nothing more he could teach her, Josie went to Lord James and asked permission to establish her own school of military surgeons. Such institution didn’t exist yet. The idea of having healers especially trained to treat war injuries accompanying him on the battlefield appealed to the Great Lord. Josie found favorable ground to realize her project in Rosecliff and both Lord Mitchell and Lord Douglas acted as patrons. From then on, every military campaign had had its contingent of people from the North Hills Academy of Surgery to tend to the wounded.

Years passed and the little boy who had made her feel welcomed in Master Sileas’ class grew up. He became a man, married to an heir from another powerful clan and succeeded to his father on the Great lord’s throne. Josie was proud to serve him and when he gathered an army for his first military campaign, she sent her best surgeons along. Then, came the Norse men and things got bad for the North Hills army. She sent more of her students to help. None of them came back.

The defeat gave the North Hills a new ruler. Duncan, the self-proclaimed Great Lord, wishing to eradicate any establishments too closely connected to the Mitchells’ reign, closed Josie’s school in order to open a new one in Brastàl, ruled by people he could watch and control. Duncan had revoked Josie’s right to teach and practice. Rosecliff Academy was now a school without students and a hospital without patients. In other words, it was just that sad, grey building at the edge of town. It’s only use now was to shield a couple houses and shops against the high ocean wind. Josie had not given up on living there, but she was left to wander in the silent rooms and empty corridors like a ghost. Along with her school, Duncan had not only deprived her of earning, he had also took away her pride and the very purpose of her life. That emptiness was added to the grief of seeing her country in desolation. The capture and probable death of her dear friend John also weighed on her mind.

The sky had been showering the coast with its own sorrow all day long. It was night and rain still trickled down the kitchen window as Josie poured herself another cup of wine. This wasn’t an unusual weather for Rosecliff. Brastàl’s winters, Josie remembered, were colder, but at least there wasn’t that damned rain all the time. The side of the tin cup threw back at her the distorted reflection of a woman who shouldn’t look that old.

Perhaps it was meant to be, she thought. Maybe this marked the end of the era of her life that had begun with that brawl in the Quigley Inn long ago. What kind of life waited for her outside the academy’s walls? Buy sheep and a piece of land: be a peasant’s wife like her mother. The whole idea made her nauseous in a way a gutted soldier could never do.

She took a sip, but having lost the desire to drink, she put the cup down on the table. A few drops of wine escaped from the edge and landed on a white towel. She stared at the red spots. Blood was all she knew and keeping it from spilling too much from a human body was everything she was good at. She needed one more patient, just one, to know what it felt like to be alive.

She jumped when she heard knocks on the kitchen door. It startled her so much she knocked the cup down and some more wine spilled on the white cloth.

Who would come calling in the middle of the night, and from the back door? Soldiers? She did not want to have anything to do with Duncan’s men. She had seen enough of them already. She contemplated pretending she was asleep, but whoever it was, they had noticed the light through the window by now. The unexpected visitor, a man judging by the sound of his voice, banged on the door, probably with fists, and shouted to urge anybody there to answer.

Josie stood and picked up the candle holder. She dusted some bread crumbs from her brown dress, walked to the fireplace where she took the iron poker. She went to the door, hiding her weapon behind her back. One was never too careful.

She put the candle down on the window sill, long enough to unlatch the door, then she took it again to detail her visitor.

His clothes were drenched and muddy. A reddish, untidy beard ate his chin and cheeks. He was short, pale eyed, had a long nose slightly crooked at the tip and fine full lips. He could have been attractive if less unkempt. A beggar, she thought, seeking shelter for the night. She could swear she had seen that man before, but as her brain tried to give substance to the fleeting impression, he took the opportunity of her indecision to come in uninvited. That’s when she noticed the sword he held in his hand. She stepped back, forgetting for a moment that she was holding a weapon as well. Despite being armed, the man did not show any sign of hostility, at least not yet.

“Are you mistress MacArtney? I need to see her. It’s urgent,” he demanded with a blatant lack of manners.

Then, the recognition came. It’s not the man she recognized, that would come later. Instead, she saw in him something she had witnessed before: that specific kind of despair only seen in the eyes of her patients’ helpless relatives. She knew now the motive of his visit. He was there to seek help for someone else. That didn’t mean she could lower her guard.

“I am Josie MacArtney.“

“Good. My husband says you are a friend of his and that you can help. He is severely injured. He needs immediate attention.”

This had been said in the tone of someone used to giving orders. Not a beggar after all. The man was sweating worry from every pore of his skin, she noticed. This meant he wasn’t a liar either.

He stepped closer to her and in that new light, she could discern his facial features distinctly. It hit her at once. That face, minus the beard and framed with longer curly locks, she had seen it on posters in town, the ones offering a good reward for the capture of a traitor. She had Anders Mitchell, the former great consort of the federation, standing in front of her.

“I am –“

“I know who you are,“ she cut him off. “Where is Milord?” He had mentioned his husband. It meant that John was alive.

“I left him in your stables. We took the liberty in putting our horses there. He is very bad. He has fever and the wound is festered. We’ve been traveling for days.”

Sir Mitchell’s kilt was so dirty she could not make out the color or the tartan pattern anymore. “I can believe you, sir.”

Nervous and restless, Anders glanced in the darkness of the adjacent rooms.  “Are you alone?”

“I’m not alone, but we are only two here: Zeb and I,” she replied, taking the risk of telling the truth. She tightened her grip around the metal rod behind her back. “All the students and surgeons are gone with the army: they either died on the battlefield or they had joined Duncan and the Easterners after the fall of Archerwall,” she explained.

“Who’s Zeb? Your dog?” Anders snorted. “And give me that fire poker you’re hiding behind your back,” he ordered. “You could hurt someone.”

She obeyed and handed it to him. Against someone with a sword, she did not stand a chance anyway. “No. Zeb is my assistant. His mother gave birth here years ago and then disappeared, leaving us the baby. I raised him and took him as an apprentice. He is a young man now, but not the kind you send on a battlefield, even as a surgeon.”

“Can he be trusted?”

Josie could not help a snide chuckle. “You are the one threatening me with a sword and you ask if my boy can be trusted?”

Anders, though, did not seem to grasp the humor in it. “Yes.”

“I see no reason not to trust him,” she replied. His sword was down and she knew now he was not going to attack. Emboldened, Josie spoke up again: “I can’t say the same about you, though. People say you betrayed your lord to make us lose the war.”

“People gossip when they’re too bored to mind their own business,” Anders groaned. “Would I be here asking you to heal my husband if I had betrayed him?”

“A belated conscience perhaps?”

Anders had a bitter laugh. “Some people who know me would tell you that I don’t have such thing as a conscience.”

“Is it true?” she pressed him, ignoring his last comment, “that you are one of the invaders’ people?” She was not the kind of woman who easily gave credit to any hearsay, but she was a prudent one who did not want to let suspicious characters cross her threshold. She was putting herself in danger if she agreed to let him in, and she had to know the truth about the man before deciding if he was worth the risk.

Anders hesitated a moment before he answered. “My mother came from their island, but that does not mean I’m siding with the invaders, if it’s what you really want to know.”

She stared at him in silence.

He lost patience and took an angry step in her direction. “Listen, Mistress, I’m telling you the truth. I’m innocent of the crimes the North Hillers accuse me of. But if you don’t believe me, you can do whatever you want:  call the city guards, let them arrest me and take the reward if you will, but before that, you have to help John or he is going to die and that’s not something that I will let happen, not under my watch and not as long as I breathe!”

He was right, and Josie had already taken a decision. It did not really matter if Lord Mitchell had decided to marry an arsehole: Josie still owed John a great deal. She owed his father and his great-uncle also, and she hated Duncan. These were reasons enough to help. “Well, if he is as bad as you claim, you better bring him here at once. I’ll wake Zeb and make him prepare a room.”

Anders’ shoulders sagged and he huffed, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his back. “Thank you,” he whispered. He gave the fire poker back to her, turned on his heels, opened the door and disappeared the other side of the curtain of rain drops.

Josie lifted the edge of her dress and hurried upstairs to wake her assistant. She had prayed for one last patient. She had never thought it would be the boy with the bouncing curls.

***

 

The short moment in the cozy kitchen had made Anders forget how cold and displeasing the rain was. He hurried across the garden and most probably crushed some plants under his boots, but it was hard to care. Besides, the darkness was like the thick fur of a black cat and he saw next to nothing. He headed in the direction of the stables blindly, as fast as he could. He tripped and hit his knee on a rock. He got up and continued. Pain was a distraction he could not afford.

When they were still in the marshes a few days ago, Anders had collected bark from the willow trees. This morning, as they were still in the spirit cave, he had boiled it and made John drink it, as he had seen Michele do. That attempt as a cure had been too little too late and failed at beating the fever back. The ride under the cold rain had just made it worse and throughout the day, it had progressed at alarming speed. “ _My husband won’t be dead to me until I carry him myself to the funeral pyre_ ,” Anders had told Mike, and he still stuck to that resolution. He would not give up until there would be truly nothing to hold on to anymore, and John was still breathing…. at least he was the last time Anders had seen him.

The Aklànder walked around the greenhouse, trailing his fingers against the glass surface to guide himself. When he turned the corner, something attacked his leg with excited yaps. He jumped and cursed. “Damned gods! Now is not the time to play, Tiolam!” he admonished her.  “Come now!” he called her, clapping his hand on his thigh to get her attention. He could not see her and her little stealth paws made no sound in the wet clay. Finally, he saw the light of the lantern he had lightened up earlier in the stables filter through the wooden planks. He headed in that direction. The door resisted, but he shouldered it. Furtive as a shadow, Tiolam slipped inside before him.

Anders dropped the sword to the ground and the weapon lay forgotten as he moved with haste to the horse box where he had last seen John. The young lord was still there, asleep, seating on the ground where he had left him, his head down and his chin resting on his clavicle.  Anders kneeled next to his husband.

John’s face was flushed, hot and sweaty. He jumped when Anders tapped on his cheek. “John! Wake up!”

John noticed the fox licking his hand and he mouthed her name. Anders called him again and only then did he lift his head and his breath rasped in his throat. “Anders. You’re back.”

“Of course I’m back. I wouldn’t have left you there all night. Can you stand?”

“I think.”

With help, John got on his feet and made a few steps on his wobbly legs.

He leant heavily against Anders’ smaller frame. “I would have loved you many more years; if the spirits had allowed it,” he murmured.

“Shut up!” Anders snapped as he fought against the inertia of his spouse’s weak body in order to drag him out of the stables. “Spare me the touching love scene. There’s no need for that.”

The downpour and blasting wind gave them a harsh welcome outside, but John scarcely noticed. “I need you to know –,” he said in a faltering voice, close to Anders’ ear.

“I told you to shut up!” Anders interrupted him dryly. “Keep your strength for the surgery.”

Anders blew out the flame in the lantern with a pang of regret. It wouldn’t have survived the wind and rain anyway. He was condemned to another perilous crossing of the garden in the dark. He closed and locked the stables’ door, leaving Tiolam inside with the horses. He doubted Mistress MacArtney would want a fox inside the hospital.

He slung John’s left arm around his own neck to support his weight more efficiently. “ _How could one feel so fragile and thin and be so hefty at the same time?”_ Anders wondered.  He carried him under the rain, around the stables and across the garden to the kitchen door.

Anders knocked and waited. “Hold on, sweetheart. It’s nearly over,” he encouraged John who did not utter a single sound in reply.

The door opened, revealing the halo of a ceramic oil lamp, an arm and a brown dress.

“Hello Josie,” John said with a pale attempt at a smile.

She looked shaken, which didn’t surprise Anders.  Anybody who had known John as a healthy, young nobleman would be shocked to see what war, torture, starving, remorse and illness had done to him. “Good night, Milord,” she greeted him, stepping aside to let Anders bring him inside.

“See? I wasn’t lying,” Anders bit for good measure.

Josie ignored it. “Follow me,” she instructed. “We’ll put him in the lecture room. It’s the cleanest room right now and we’ll have plenty of space to work.”

The lecture room had a capacity of about a hundred students. All those empty chairs unsettled Anders, as if he was being watched by a whole assembly of invisible spectators. In fact, everything in the classroom made him uncomfortable. A great cabinet displayed behind its glass doors transparent recipients with small animals, organs and human body parts floating in spirit of wine. On a stand, several anatomical wax models lay inert. The collection included a realistic man’s head with a removable brain and a thoracic cage opened to show the viscera. Shelves fixed to the walls were filled with bones of different size and the complete skeleton of some marine creature hanged on the ceiling. The furniture was completed by a large table at the front of the lecture room where Josie led them. Following her instructions, Anders stripped John from his cloak, his coat and helped him lie down on a narrow wool mattress placed on the table.

“This is Zeb,” Josie introduced her assistant when he walked into the room, bringing water in a jug, pieces of cloth and a pair of scissors. The young man had an aquiline nose, hair of a dull brown and the small and skinny complexion of someone who was condemned to keep the appearance of a teenager for the rest of his life. Anders now understood why Josie said he was not the kind one sends to war. Zeb glanced with interest at the lord and his consort, but did not speak to them.

“We’re going to need more light. Bring me all the candles you can find: all of them,” Josie asked Zeb immediately after he had freed his hands from the items he just carried in. When the boy was gone again, she grabbed the scissors and proceeded in cutting the sleeve of John’s shirt from the cuff to the shoulder to bare his right arm.

Anders wetted a piece of cloth in the jug and mopped up the sticky sweat from John’s face and from the skin revealed by the low neckline of his shirt. John thanked him between shudders.

Zeb came back with a box full of candles and candlesticks. Soon, all available space on the furniture surrounding the table was occupied by them, making the room look like a temple on All Souls’ Day.

Josie removed John’s bandage and examined the putrefied wound. The state of what was left of his hand was too horrible to describe. Anders averted his eyes and concentrated on his husband’s face instead. John had closed his eyes. His breathing was shallow, jerky and irregular. Anders soaked the cloth again and placed it on his forehead.

Carefully leaving some details out, Anders briefly told Josie about John’s misadventure at the hands of the enemy, of his rescue and their journey to Rosecliff.

“Giving the aspect of his hand and if it really happened as you say, it’s a miracle he is not already dead,” Josie remarked. “Most men wouldn’t have survived in the same conditions.”

“There was a young woman among the nomads, she accepted to help. She did something to him to slow the poison from spreading. I was not there at the time. I don’t know what it was,” Anders explained. He thought judicious not to mention that she had also summoned the Norse gods’ powers in a previous healing attempt. He was afraid Josie would not want to touch John and help him if she knew he could be under a curse.

“Whatever the barbarian woman did, it worked,” she observed.

“I was wondering… is there any chance we he can avoid the amputation?” Anders asked, having kept a secret, yet, he knew, unrealistic hope that they could save at least John’s thumb.

That hope was soon crushed by Josie categorical answer: “No. It’s way too late for that. And we can’t delay the surgery any longer. I have to amputate him now or else I doubt he’s going to survive much longer. Maybe it’s already too late…”

“Do it,” John agreed, his voice rough from the fever. “Just cut it off.”

A fit of nausea seized Anders.

“If you go through this, you’ll feel better afterward,” Josie told him. “The pain will be less severe and it will disappear over time.”

“How much of it will you have to remove?” Anders inquired.

She took a close look at her patient’s arm again. “I’ll have to cut it off just under the elbow. The flesh of the whole hand, wrist and part of the forearm is already dead.”

It was John’s turn to react. “The whole forearm has to go?”

“Yes.”

John’s glazed gaze shifted from the surgeon to his husband. “My wedding mark…”

For a second, Anders did not understand what he meant by it, but then he realized. If the forearm had to go, so did the wedding tattoo: the fire of Eri that identified them as a married couple.

Anders removed the cloth from his forehead and replaced it with his hand. ”Don’t worry about that. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me,” John resisted with all the strength he could muster, which was not much.  

“You prefer to die, maybe?” Anders asked in a dry tone. Then, he paused, took a deep breath and a softer voice to say: “the tattoo is just a symbol. Our bond runs deeper. I take that from Madraìd Aileen herself.”

John’s ragged breath calmed a little. “You do?”

“Yes. That’s what she told me.”

As they spoke, Josie had cleaned John’s arm. When she was over, she sent Zeb to the kitchen and he came back with a few pots, a goblet and an amber-colored bottle.

“It won’t change anything between us if you don’t have your tattoo anymore,” Anders reassured his husband. “But if this is important to you, once you’re recovered, I’ll bring you to a temple and they’ll make you a new one. How about that? On the bicep perhaps. That would look really manly,” he added with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.  It was stupid and probably useless. His husband was not some child who had dropped his sweetmeat in the mud.

John winced. “And do you think a stump in place of an arm also looks really manly?”

“John…” Anders sighed.

Zeb poured a generous amount of liquid from the bottle into the goblet and handed it to Anders. “Sir, you have to make his lordship drink that.”

Anders sniffed it. “Whiskey? Now? You sure it’s wise?” He was not convinced John was strong enough to support being drunk.

Josie’s eyes narrowed. “Depends on how loud you want to hear him scream when I’ll be cutting his arm off,” she retorted. She didn’t like her methods to be contradicted and had no time to waste on his hesitation. That trait reminded Anders of Michele. Women who once had the blood of men on their hands were not to be taken lightly, he realized.

John tugged on Anders’ sleeve to catch his attention. “It’s fine. I can drink.”

“Fair enough,” Anders said. He helped John sit up and since he seemed to be able to hold it without spilling the content, he put the goblet in his hand carefully. Then, Anders snatched the bottle from Zeb’s hand. “Give that to me. I’m going to need a stiff drink as well.”

“Can I get one too?” Zeb asked Josie, hopeful.

“No.”

With a shaky hand, John made the cup clink to the bottle in his spouse’s hand. “To everything that’s still worth drinking to,” he toasted in a murmur, forcing a smile to comfort his husband whose palms started to get wet and cold from stress.

Anders toasted back and took two long gulps from the bottle, hoping Rosecliff whisky would turn out to be some kind of liquid courage.

John emptied the goblet and coughed when the burning drink went down his throat. Anders refilled it and John drank two more of them. The way he clung to Anders’ clothes when the blond man made him lie down again showed that the effect of alcohol had been immediate. The Aklànder kept his eyes fixed on his husband’s ones that were veiled by a fog of pain, disease and alcohol intoxication. He only looked away when Zeb approached the table with a tray containing a collection of sharp instruments. Among them was the serrated blade that would be used to saw the bone.

Anders felt sick again. The room danced in front of his eyes and he had to grab the edge of the table not to pass out on the floor.

John had caught a glimpse of the instruments too and he grabbed Anders’ forearm to bring him closer. “Promise me something, Anders,” John ordered, his voice slurred from the whisky, but made frantic by the urgency of the situation, “as my other half and my kinsman. If I do not survive this-“

“You _will_ survive. You _won’t_ die,” Anders interrupted him. He didn’t want to hear any of this.  

“Listen to me, it’s important,” John insisted, grasping at the collar of Anders’ shirt instead. “If I die:  my mother, Annie and George… will you keep them safe for me? It’s the last favor I’m asking of you: that you protect them from Herrick, and also from Duncan. If Duncan learns I’m out of his way for good, he will take everything we have and erase the last Mitchells from this earth to make sure we never rise as a ruling family again. Promise me that you’ll do everything in your power to protect what’s left of our clan.”

For someone in that such a precarious state, John was making a lot of sense, and that was what scared Anders the most. “I pro-promise,” he stammered. “But it won’t come to that. I know you won’t die. You’re as strong as an ox. You are going to go through this like it's nothing. Everything is going to be fine.”

John’s grip on his collar loosened. “What makes you so sure?”

“ _He knows, the bastard. He just wants to hear it,”_ Anders thought. He took a deep breath. “I’m sure because it would destroy me to see you go. I don’t think the universe hates me as much as to take away from me the only thing that counts.”

Josie and Zeb exchanged a knowing look.

“Alright, I love you,” Anders declared. “That’s what you wanted to hear, right? There!  I said it.”

John kept silent but stared at his husband as if it was the first time he saw him.

“I know. My timing is awful,” Anders added. “We can both agree that I am a pathetic excuse of a husband.”

John had no time to reply since Josie interrupted them to put in Anders’ hands a mortar filled with a brown powder. “He has to swallow that, one scoop will be enough. Here is some water,” she told him, giving him a glass of water and a spoon.

Anders inspected the content of the mortar.  “What’s in it?”

“Deadsheep roots.”

Anders nodded. He knew that shrub. It grew on the Spirit Mounts, North from Aklànd. It bore that name because when a sheep made the mistake to graze on that bush, it fell into a deep sleep resembling death for several hours before waking up and keep grazing as if nothing had happened. It was precisely that plant Mike had used to spike their drinks during the banquet after their first marital trial. Anders had woken up in the middle of a glen, with no recollection of how he had ended up there.  Hopefully, combined to the whiskey, it would be enough to make John sleep throughout the intervention.

Anders mixed one spoonful of the root powder in the glass until he obtained a smooth texture. John, now that he was inebriated, had no tonus whatsoever and it made the task of sitting him up even more difficult.  Sip by sip, Anders managed to pour all of the content between John’s trembling lips. “Good boy.”

Zeb stood by, ready to hand Josie the instruments. Anders thought about leaving the room and not come back until it would be over. He was not sure he could bear it.

Josie touched John’s shoulder gently. “You are going to count to three hundred out loud, Milord, so I can gauge your state of consciousness.”

The young lord’s eyes were wide and his breath laborious and short. _He is afraid_ , Anders realized. It was the first time he saw him truly scared. He could not go away and leave him like that. “Oi! Look at me,” Anders urged his husband. He brushed away a few curls plastered on John’s face and he stroked his forehead. “Yes, that’s right,” he said when their eyes met. “Count with me: one, two three, four…" John counted with him and when they reached ten, Anders let him go on by himself and he kept on petting his hair and rubbing the space between his eyebrows with the pulp of his thumb.

“…thirty one, thirty two-” The count stopped abruptly. “Anders?"

“Hm?”

“You are not a pathetic excuse of a husband.”

Anders couldn’t help a smile. “Keep on counting, you dummy.”

Fever and several shots of whiskey had already made John’s voice a hesitant mumble, but now, all his senses seemed to be failing him as reality became more and more elusive. He made some grabbing motions as if trying to catch the one of Anders’ hands that rested flat on the table. Anders grasped his fingers but they had lost all their strength and coordination.

“One hundred thirteen, one hundred…fourteen… fif… fifteen…six…teen… sev…ven….eig-ht…" John’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. Anders was still smoothing his forehead as if his lover could still feel it, even if, clearly, it wasn’t the case anymore. “He’s gone,” he told Josie, and swallowed around a thick strangling lump in his throat.

“We can proceed.”

***

 

Anders was not one to express regrets easily. In fact, he often boasted about the fact he always followed his own will and, thus, rarely regretted anything. But seeing John like that, as motionless and pale as one of the lecture room’s wax models, his mind was heading straight down that lane. _“I should have courted him properly when I had the chance,”_ he thought.

He held John’s cold hand so tight in his own that the younger man’s nails would leave marks on the skin of his palm, like a constellation of purplish half-moons.

There was this tradition in Aklànd: when someone wanted to express their interest for a woman, they usually hung a flower crown to a nail on the door of the lass’s home. If she accepted the courtship, she would wear the crown on her head. If she refused, the crown would be left there on the door. In Aklànd, the expression “being left to rot at the door” meant “being rejected by a love prospect”.

If the one being courted was a man, the tradition was to leave tree branches on his doorstep. As for the flowers, different kinds of branches had different significations. Since, in the old days, the clans’ chieftains gathered under an old pine to negotiate and sign treaties, this tree remained the symbol of alliances and hence, the one of marriage.  Gifting a man branches from a pine tree was an explicit proposal.  The birch branches, with their silver bark and catkins, were offered to signify a pure, gentle and sincere love. Larch, with its deciduous needles, was for declarations of a more passionate and lustful kind. Since that tree shed its coat every autumn, putting its branches on a lover’s doorstep expressed the wish to see him shed his clothes for you.

What would he have offered John? Some pine, obviously, with a lot of larch and a touch of birch.

Anders pushed the cuff of John’s shirt up and run his fingers up and down his forearm, caressing the slight hair. The skin there was not much warmer than the one of John’s hand.

The surgery was over at the crack of dawn. John had not batted an eyelash since then and the night was creeping through the high windows of the lecture room again. Anders blamed the long sleep on the exhaustion and the generous portion of deadsheep John had swallowed.

When questioned on the matter, Josie had answered with a sad shrug: “he was very weak when you brought him in. He’s either going to wake up, or he’s not. All we can do is wait and see.”

If his husband did not wake up, it was not on his doorstep but on his funeral pyre that Anders would have to put his bunch of branches. That image put his heart between the hammer and the anvil and his throat in a vice.

During the day, Josie had been coming and going, bringing blankets and additional pillows to make her patient as comfortable as possible. She touched his hair and forehead fondly when she thought Anders was not watching. There was the age gap to take in consideration, and John had never been attracted to a woman, so Anders wondered, without trying to investigate the matter any further, what history these two had in common.

Now she was gone again and Anders left alone with his spouse. In a way, it was like reliving all over again what he had been through in the nomad camp when John was ill. Except that now they weren’t prisoners, the material conditions were better and Josie was definitely more caring than Michele, though less easy on the eye. And since, it didn’t change much in the way Anders felt: the same crippling anxiety had him staring at John’s face, anxious to see any change, for better or for worse.

John didn’t give any warning sign of an imminent wake: not a twitch of his eyelids, not a spasm in his muscles, not a change in his breathing.

“George?”

The croaky word was so unforeseen it almost made Anders jump out of his skin. It had definitely come out of John’s mouth. Anders stood up without letting go of the hand he had been holding for hours. “No, it’s me: Anders,” he corrected when John blinked his eyes open. “Good evening, bonny boy. How are you feeling?”

“I finally got to marry you, didn’t I? We’re married, yes?”

A temporary memory loss was one of the side effects of deadsheep. Anders tried to find a witty remark to make, but nothing came. Relief was too overwhelming to let his snarky nature take over. “Yes, we are.”

John looked around, like one would grope blindly in a pocket for a familiar object. “Where am I?”

“It’s alright. Josie said you’d be disoriented a little. You are at the surgery academy, in the lecture room more precisely.”

John frowned and his face kept this expression for long silent minutes as he was making an effort to remember; to sort the old memories from the new ones. He tried to move, to lift his head and look at his right arm, but his head was a rock and his arms made of granite. “Is it over?” he asked Anders. “Did they cut it off?”

“Yes, they did. You were unconscious all day long.”

“You stayed by my side all this time?”

Anders shook his head. “Nah, at some point I had to leave to take a piss.”

John huffed and rolled his eyes. “I know I can always count on your honesty.”

Satisfied he had gotten the reaction he was aiming for, Anders moved to the head of the makeshift bed and he placed a kiss to his spouse’s forehead.  “I'm really glad you woke up.”

“I couldn't deprive myself of the sight of your handsome face forever, could I?”

“I don't think Josie would approve if she knew you’re spending your precious energy on flirting,” Anders reprimanded him.

“I can spend it the way I want,” John stated, squeezing Anders’ hand in his to prevent him from straying too far from him. “You are not going to deny a little flirt to a poor one-handed man like me, are you?

“Seems like they did only half the job and they forgot to amputate your silliness,” Anders teased his lover. He extracted himself from his grip in order to fetch an earthenware cup. The greenish liquid was lukewarm by now. “Do you think you can drink this? It’s a nettle infusion.”

Not waiting for a real reply, Anders slipped his arm under John’s back and around his shoulders to pull him up to a seating position. These movements: help John sit, stand up and lie down, they had become an ingrained habit. He didn’t have to think anymore. As if taking care of him was now a second nature. Who would have thought he’d get used to it so quickly? Certainly not Anders himself.  “You lost a lot of blood, and according to Josie, nettle will help you get some strength back,” he explained as John drank. Once he had taken the last sip, Anders put the cup down.

From this position, John could now contemplate the desolated sight at his right side. Of the arm that had pulled on a bow string uncountable times, had mastered the art of sword handling and had been tied to Anders’ by seventeen red ribbons a day of autumn in Somerled temple, all that was left of it was two inches of stump below an elbow immobilized in a tight bandage. “It seems so strange…unnatural and ugly,” John observed.

“You’ll get used to it.”                             

“Will you?”

Anders abstained himself from replying. Instead, he settled John back into his fluffy pillows and tucked him in. “I think you should rest now.”

On the middle of the large table, lost under four blankets, John appeared thin and frail like a sick child in his parents’ bed.  The corner of his mouth twitched and trembled when their hands joined again. John gave him a drawn smile. “You've been courageous, Anders.”

“Look who's talking! It's not me who had my arm chopped off,” Anders pointed out. “But you are right: it was awful to witness.” There had been blood, a lot of it, and despite the effects of the deadsheep and the whiskey, John had moaned throughout the amputation as his whole body jerked with spasms of pain. Anders had had to hold him down and he had watched, powerless, as his lover clenched his teeth and shed involuntary tears. “Hopefully, Josie was right and you don’t remember anything.”

“The last thing I remember clearly is when you said you loved me.”

Anders chuckled and let himself fall back on his chair. “Of course, there was no way you would have let me get away with it.”

John shook his head with the exhausted yet victorious expression of a hunter who just caught his white stag after a long and unpredictable hunt. He closed his eyes when Anders touched his forehead to check his temperature in a compulsory gesture.

“Try to sleep some more.”

The whispered advice was useless. John was already on his way to the land of Réev.

The hand in Anders went limp, but the regular rising and falling of his lord’s chest set the blond man’s mind at ease.

Josie was observing them from where she stood in the door frame. She had probably been there long enough to hear a good part of their exchange. Maybe it was due to his fatigue, or just from a final acceptance of his feelings toward his husband, but he found out he didn’t care if his demonstration of conjugal affection had had a witness.

When she saw that Anders had noticed her presence, she walked into the room and picked the cup, satisfied to find it empty. “I set a bed for you in the dormitory,” she informed him. “There are clean clothes there and supplies for you to wash up.”

“Thank you,” he declined, “but I’ll stay with John.”

“It’s all very romantic, but he won’t go anywhere, you know.”

Anders wrinkled his nose. “I wasn’t trying to be romantic.”

“No disrespect, Your Grace, but you really need to clean up,” Josie maintained, “and he needs to rest,” pointing a finger at John’s sleeping form.

“Am I stinking that bad?”

She stared back at him wordlessly. The absence of direct confirmation was self-explanatory. “It’s on the second floor, third door to the left.”

With a lamblike sigh, Anders carefully placed John’s hand at the lord’s side on the table and he raised to leave the room. She followed him and once Anders had closed the door behind them, he turned to face her. “Just one thing: my husband does not know anything about Lord Duncan’s usurpation, yet,” he told her in an undertone. “John’s been ill and emotionally unstable of late. I fear the reaction he would have to such news while he is in that state. Don’t mention anything about it to him, and tell your boy to do the same.”

She frowned and remained silent, long enough to assimilate the information and its potential consequences. “If this is your wish, sir,” she agreed, but she clung at the cup and wiped her free hand on her dress, as if the secret had left a dirty stain on her.

***

 

Anders was welcomed in the dormitory upstairs by an unworldly vision: a plate filled with sheep’s cheese, buttered bread and sausages, a mug of fresh ale, a bath tub with a steaming bucket of water nearby and several beds with thick quilts waited. This was almost too good to be true. At the sight of all those luxuries, Anders felt like he was about to burst into tears. The exhaustion of the travel fell on him at once like a rock fall. He needed to sleep now… and eat while he was sleeping perhaps. No. He put himself together. He would eat, then wash, then sleep – that was the best plan.

The food was savored and the plate left empty on the floor. Nobody could truly understand how precious food was before they experienced a real lack of it, and Anders appreciated every bite.

He removed his boots caked with mud and abandoned them in a corner of the room, along with his coat that smelt like a sheep carcass left under the rain since a few days. He got rid of his shirt that had been white once. He threw it on one of the empty beds. His belts and kilt soon followed.

He could not recall the last time he had been fully naked.  That had to be on the morning before he left Brastàl, a whole moon ago.

He placed a linen sheet inside of the tub to avoid getting splinters on the rough wood surface. He kneeled inside the tub with as much grace as his aching muscles let him. With a ladle left in the bucket for this purpose, he drew some water. He felt awkward and clumsy, as if he was not sure how to wash anymore. The water poured on his left shoulder was just a tad too hot and made his skin flush. It drew a moan from his throat- the kind of sound that should normally be restricted to the perimeter circumscribed by a conjugal bed’s curtains.  He hastened to repeat the experience and sighed with content. The sensation of the hot rivulets running down his chest, his stomach, between his thighs: there was something subtly erotic about it.

His body didn’t fail to notice it. His sex hardened and stood erect – like a young tree engorged with sap. It gave Anders the same impression as stumbling across an old friend. “I’m glad to see at least one of us has some willpower left, my lad,” he reflected out loud.  

Finding the use of the ladle too tedious, Anders grabbed the bucket and emptied it on his head.  He panted and blew through his nose to expulse the water that threatened to get in. The air in the dormitory was cool and steam rose from his shoulders and arms. He slicked his damp hair back by carding his fingers through it. His hair had started to grow again since Edna had cut it. Edna… with her firm womanly curves and lickerish lips.

There was no denying that Anders missed sex. And after being done with the meal and the bath, a nice roll in the sheets would be exactly what he needed before sleeping.

His thoughts, though, did not linger on Edna for more than a few seconds. Somehow, he knew the priestess would have turned out to be a disappointing lay. Funny enough, nothing could quite match the satisfaction he drew from giving himself to his lawfully wedded husband. He remembered how invested John was in the act, his long fingers grasping the furs on their bed as if the intercourse was a combat and pleasure a final showdown. It always led to a deadlock, however, because the opponents were of equal strength when it came to love making. The stalemate could never be settled between them two, no matter what strategy they used in their touches and kisses. The only solution was to rest, then engage in battle once more. He remembered how John sometimes bit his neck to the verge of pain. And when Anders screamed and John asked him if he had hurt him, the only answer he could give was to beg him to do it again.

Anders let his mind stride back to those nights where he fell asleep with his arms around his husband’s waist and his face pressed between his shoulder blades, John’s lovely backside rubbing on his cock every time he moved in his sleep. He didn’t quite know how lucky he was at the time.

They could have it again – they _would_ have it again… one day.

Once Anders was done scrubbing his whole body with the brush and the rough tallow soap, he stepped out of the tub and dried himself. Then, he took an interest in the other supplies Josie had left for him on a nearby cabinet: a clean shirt, a kilt of the colors of the Douglas clan, a razor blade, a bottle of perfume, a short ribbon and a bowl filled with a mix of salt, dried horsetail rush stems and fennel seeds. The bowl’s content was for his teeth. They too needed a good cleaning. He wrapped the ribbon around his forefinger, moistened it with his the tip of his tongue and plunged it into the salty mixture before he put it in his mouth and rubbed his teeth vigorously. The fennel seeds left a fresh, agreeable taste on his tongue after he swallowed.

He opened the perfume bottle and took a sniff:  juniper berries. He shrugged. That would do. He poured a little in both his hands and perfumed his armpits and crotch. People generally perfumed their clothes, their gloves or a handkerchief, but Anders always preferred wearing it directly on his skin.

He took the razor blade, the candle stick and went in search of a mirror, which he found at the other end of the dormitory.  A mirror that large, in which he could see himself from head to toe, must have cost a real fortune. It was a remarkable piece of artwork. It had been gifted to the surgery school by Clan Keir, as indicated by an engraving at the bottom of the sculpted elm frame, but Anders did not notice any of it. He was mesmerized by his own reflection. At first, he did not even recognize the man staring back at him in the mirror.

The weight loss was the most evident thing. His tummy had disappeared. He admired his lean legs and lithe torso. His skin now clung to sharp angles and tone muscles. If there had been any remains of juvenile traits in his features, they were gone for good. The journey had hardened him – like steel seared in fire then doused with water. He had collected a few scars on his legs and arms. He didn’t look like a wealthy nobleman anymore: someone who lived a sheltered life and got anything he liked by snapping his fingers. He looked more like a wild, lone ranger: someone you fear and respect.

He brought the blade to his cheek but could not bring himself to shave his beard. He scratched his chin and lifted his head to inspect his face. It itched like a bastard but he quite liked the way it made him look. _“Would John mind the beard?”,_ he wondered, in a bout of good old self-consciousness. “ _No_ ”, he concluded. John would not mind. Just like Anders would try his best not to mind his missing arm. It was more than he had ever done for anybody.

He trimmed his facial hair neatly and left it at that. He was gauging the result when his eyes caught movement behind him.

Zeb stood in the doorframe with a candle: his face red and mouth slightly agape. Anders had not bothered closing the door, and obviously, Zeb expected to find him already clothed.

Anders turned around, calm, composed and unashamed. He walked toward the door, gathered his dirty clothes on the way and threw them in Zeb’s arms. “Instead of ogling my hunky self, you should make yourself useful.”

“I wasn’t ogling, sir,” Zeb protested, panic making his voice reach high notes.

Anders knew the lad told the truth. If he had watched him, it was out of curiosity for the infamous sorcerer the whole North Hills had been talking about. He gave him a wicked smirk. “Well, it’s too late. I’ve already cast a curse on you.”

Zeb’s eyes went wide and round like coins and he took a few steps back.

“It will only be lifted once these clothes are washed to perfection. Every remaining stain adds a year to the curse.”

Zeb hurried to leave without further ado and Anders chuckled as he watched him disappear down the stairs.

This time, Anders closed the door. He took the clean shirt from the pile of clothes and put it on. The billowing piece of clothing fell down to his knees. It felt silky and lightweight on his skin: an agreeable contrast to the shirt he had been wearing for the past weeks, rendered stiff with the salt of sweat.

He slipped under the closest bed’s quilt. He did not blow the candle, as if he feared darkness would engulf and masticate him to death if he did.

Anders kept his eyes open, staring into the void. The conditions to find sleep were perfect. It should have been easy. The woolen mattress was warm, the pillow was fluffy and the quilt downy, and still, something was amiss. His eyes refused to even close. He felt confined, uncomfortable and the sensation grew meaner until it became a knot in his solar plexus. He tried to chase the anxiety, but every time he thought he had succeeded, it came back stronger and with new weapons. _“I have to check if he’s breathing,”_ was the absurd urge that plagued him. He tried to reason with himself, to no avail. Not able to bear it anymore, he got up, hooked his finger in the ring-shaped handle of the candle holder and left his room.

He tiptoed downstairs and to the grim room with its human skulls and its creatures floating in foul liquors. A candle had been left near the surgery table and John was protected from those horrors in a soft cocoon of light. It struck him: how young he looked. A man of twenty-five winters is at the dawn of his life, but John had lived through more hardship than most men twice his age. His grins were rare lately, and anything else that could look boyish about him was masked by his strong facial bone structure. Nevertheless, sleep had put a smooth, innocent veil of youth over his face.

A shadow moved at John’s feet and Anders found Tiolam lying across his legs. She only lifted her head and looked at her master in a silent greeting. How she had gotten there was a mystery. Maybe John had asked after her and Josie had brought the vixen in to keep him company.

Anders blew his own candle, climbed on the table and slipped underneath the blankets with his husband.

Stirred from sleep, John outstretched his left arm without a word for Anders to snuggle closer. There was no question, no judgment, no teasing, just a spontaneous understanding. Before resting his head on his shoulder, Anders pressed a kiss to his chest, like one kisses the earth of his homeland after ten years at sea. He had succeeded. John would live. And heal. He would be fine. Life had triumphed over death. They had triumphed over death together.  Was it luck? Was it the Spirits’ will or even the Norse gods’ one? Either way, Anders was not ready to argue with his good fortune.

***

 

Two days after the amputation, John’s state already showed remarkable improvement. Thanks to Josie’s expert care, fever seemed to be gone for good. He ate solid food and even walked a little from a room to another. The old bruises on his face healed and his skin slowly recovered its olive glow.

 

 

 

Josie said nothing about it, but Anders understood that she would not rat him out to Duncan’s soldiers. Despite that manifestation of trust, she remained worried. They could not stay at the surgery school forever, and not even for long. As soon as John would be fit enough to travel, they’d have to leave and bring the trouble they represented with them. Luckily enough, Anders had a plan.

Zeb, Anders decided, was annoying, in addition to having limited intelligence and little charisma. As soon as Anders told him he had some articles he needed him to sell in exchange of a certain percentage of the profit, Zeb had started bragging about his bargain talents. That was not a good sign. Those who swank about their skills so freely were usually the most incompetent ones. And when Anders told him what he wanted him to sell, Zeb immediately expressed his doubts. “Selling the horses and the riding equipment will be a piece of cake, but these are foreign war gear, sir, people are going to wonder, ” he remarked as he gazed down at the axe and the Norse armor Anders had dropped on the kitchen table.

“I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to sell them subtly, if you’re as brilliant as you claim,” Anders retorted, uncompromising.

Too scared to be hurt in his pride, Zeb took the armor and axe without another word and headed to the stables to get the horses and bring them to town. Anders watched him go by the kitchen window, mildly concerned. If he could have gone and sold the stuff himself, he would have, but it was not the case, so he had to trust Zeb, which was as easy as trusting a cockchafer to deliver mail.

Standing at the window was something Anders had done too many times in his life and it would not change the outcome of Zeb’s commission if he stayed there. Instead of waiting in the kitchen, he went looking for his husband.

He was climbing the last step of the stairs leading to the second floor when he heard John’s call.

“My love?”                                                                         

“Yes?” Anders replied when he joined him in the dormitory.

John stood in the middle of the room with nothing but a shirt on, looking defeated, his belt dangling from the only hand he had left. At his feet, on the floor: five yards of crumpled tartan fabric. “Could you please help me?” It cost him to ask help for a task he had learnt to perform at the age of twelve but was not able to do by himself anymore.

Keeping quiet not to add to his husband’s feeling of humiliation, Anders took the belt from his hand and laid it on the floor. Tiolam thought it was a game and Anders had to chase her. Pouting, the fox retreated under one of the beds.

“I’m pleased to see you are doing better,” Anders told his spouse, “because we can’t stay here much longer. We have to move before it gets dangerous.” Making sure to leave an arm length of fabric between the belt buckle and the edge, he spread out the kilt until it took half the surface of the dormitory floor. “Josie tries to make us feel at home here, for your sake, but I know I’m not that welcomed.” He kneeled down and put a hand on the blue and green pattern. “Do I pleat it to the sett or to the stripe?”

“To the stripe.”

Warriors pleated their kilt to the stripe when they were at war. John had not come back to Brastàl yet: his military campaign had never ended.

As asked, Anders proceeded to pleat the part that would be at the back of the kilt, following the columns of the plaid pattern. “I sent Zeb to sell the horses, the armor and the axe. I kept the sword, just in case. We should sail away from here as soon as we can.”

Anders considered John’s silence to be a form of tacit consent. “Come here,” he said, patting the floor once the kilt was pleated. John lied down on his back, on top of the fabric and Anders straddled his legs with a saucy smile and a wink. He wrapped it around John’s hips, buckled his belt and helped him back on his feet. The only steps left was to lift the right apron up across his chest, the left apron across his back and join them together over his shoulder with a kilt pin, which John managed alone with his hand and teeth.

When he was done, John let himself fall in a chair, panting as if he had run the distance between Pine Port and Stoneholt without a single break. His dark curls, not long and heavy enough yet to let gravity tame them, stuck in every direction. Anders took a brush and a leather lace from the cabinet. “Do you want me to take care of your hair while I’m here?”

John nodded.

Anders started by brushing the curls back through his fingers before he used the brush. The smell of sickness was gone from John’s skin. Anders breathed in this warm scent that was truly his and that remembered him of sage balm.

Having caught his breath John allowed himself to relax in the chair. “I used to be annoyed with Annie fussing about my hair and playing with it… now I miss it,” he admitted.

With that hair length, there was not much Anders could do, except a half-ponytail braid to keep the curls from falling in front of his eyes.

“How was she, last time you saw her?” John inquired.

Anders cleared his throat, uncomfortable. Maybe the time had come for him to keep the promise he had made to Annie.  “She was fine. Holding on the best she could, like all of us,” he began. “Also, she was…expecting.”

He didn’t have to see John’s face to know that his eyebrows lowered into a frown. “Expecting?”

“A baby.”

“What baby?”

It was amazing how candid John could be despite everything.

“The baby she is pregnant with,” Anders specified.  This time, John turned around in his chair to look at him properly and he had to let go of the dark strands he had started braiding.

As expected, John looked a little shocked. “Annie’s pregnant? When did that happen?”

“Sometimes around our wedding, for sure.”

“Who’s the father?”

Anders drew some comfort from the fact John didn’t seem to suspect him. “Who do you think?”        

“Sir Axl….of course,” John deduced. He left himself go heavily on the backrest. “I told her to stop seeing him, but then I caught her when she was trying to whisk away from the castle. She said your brother wanted to give her something before the Johnsons left. I let her meet him. I didn’t know a baby was what he planned to give her. I should have been firmer with her.” He rubbed his forehead with the inside of his wrist. “Is she going to officially designate him as the father?”

“I have no idea. To be fair, she gave me the impression she still hoped she would be able to be with Axl. And she asked me to tell you she’s sorry.”

“Poor Annie,” John sighed.  “As far as I know, Axl is still promised to Abigail Blackwood. I’ve been elected Great Lord on the base of that alliance between the Blackwoods and the Johnsons. If we are to raise an army against Herrick, we’ll need that clan. If Annie declares the baby to be your brother’s, it might complicate things.”

It was Anders’ turn to sigh. “That’s an understatement.”

“She must be so upset. I have to go back to Brastàl, Anders. I have to set things right.”

These were the words Anders dreaded to hear. He walked around the chair to face his lord. “No,” he stated, not leaving John any room for protest. “You won’t right any wrong by going to Brastàl now. You’re not fit to travel all that way anyway. You said it yourself: we need an army, and for that, we have to speak to my brothers. If you want Annie, George and your mother to be safe, we have to stop Herrick, and you can’t do that alone. We can’t do that alone.” Then, his voice softened to take the tone of a simple request: “Come with me to Aklànd’s court. From there, we’ll think of a way to make Herrick pay for what he did to you. As for Annie, what is done is done. There is nothing you can do.”

John had kept his eyes down as Anders spoke, playing with the edge of his kilt, but then he looked up at him. “I can make sure she does not reveal who the father is.”

“I can hardly see you coercing her into doing that.”

“You’re probably right,” John said. “Fine,” he decided, “we’ll go to Aklànd.”  

Reassured, Anders returned to his braiding task.

John, however, had not laid down the last card he held in his sleeve yet. “I think Zeb should accompany us.”

Anders dropped the braid again. “What? You can’t be serious?”

“He’s an adult now and Josie thinks it would be good for him to live a life of his own,” he argued. “Besides, he’s a trained healer and I’ll need someone to change my bandages.”

“I’m already playing your handmaiden,” Anders pointed out, pulling at John’s hair a little for emphasis. “I can do that as well!”

“Really, Anders?” John asked, skeptical. “You’d change the bandages on my stump?”

“Hm… maybe you’re right,” Anders conceded. He secured the braid with the leather lace. He didn’t want to take the chance to bungle it again. “It’s a good idea to have a healer with us, but why him? It will be like having another pet, but with half of Tiolam’s brain, a lot less fun and way whinier.” At the sound of her name, the vixen came out from under the bed, trotted to John and climbed on his lap.

“Don’t be so cruel. He’s a brave lad.”

“You already asked him to come with us, did you?”

‘Yes.”

“And does he agree?”

“As long as he gets paid.”

Anders snorted.

“And he added another condition,” John specified. “I’m not sure I understood. It was about alcohol and introducing girls to him.”

“Of course,” Anders grunted.

John took the brush from Anders’ hand and put it away. “You are not my servant. You’re my consort. And I don’t want you to take care of me all the time.  It’s beneath your station.”

“Fine. Alright,” he hissed between his teeth. “You win. Zeb will come with us.”

Tiolam jumped down the chair and John stood up. He seized Anders’ belt and brought him closer with a smirk. “Does the winner get a kiss to reward his efforts?”

“In your dreams,” Anders resisted. He knew how much a simple kiss would torture them: how much it would make him crave for John’s whole body.  

“What if I kiss you, then?” John purred.

“It makes me the winner, according to your logic.”

John bent his neck to nuzzle the beard on his cheek. His hand went up his arm and stopped mid-way to appreciate the curve of the bicep. His lips moved to Anders’ ear shell and kissed the small scar the crossbow bolt had left there. “I won our very first kiss at the tournament, remember?” he whispered in the crook of his neck.

“Aye. But I didn’t want to kiss you,” Anders reminded him. It was only a half lie and they both knew it.

Their eyes met. “And now?”

“I’m more inclined to give in,” he surrendered.

John’s lips felt fresh on his and his husband’s kiss was so adoring and full of devotion that despite his need for a more substantial physical contact, Anders knew such a kiss would still satiate his yearning somewhat.

His spirit still felt light from their embraces when he left John to nap in the dormitory while he went back to the kitchen to wait on news from Zeb.

What he had told his spouse earlier was the truth, but there was also a self-serving reason why Anders wanted to go back to Aklànd. He longed to see his homeland again: the orchards that gave their name to Apple Point and his bedroom from where he could hear the incessant speech of the ocean. He missed the golden cider, the roasted partridges in silver plates, the thick slices of bread as white as a seamstress’ buttocks. He missed his little brothers and his cousin. He even worried a little for Mikkel.

Zeb came back three hours later. To Anders’ relief, he had got to sell everything and none of the buyers had asked unwanted questions. Anders wasn’t expecting to make a fortune out of it. But no matter how much Zeb had sold the horses and the war gears, Anders would always make profit anyway, since all the goods were stolen. He still frowned when he counted the meager sum Zeb put in his hand. He slipped the money in his coat pocket and glared at the young man. “Give me the rest.”  

Zeb feigned innocence. “What rest?”

Anders reached out and made an impatient grabbing motion with his empty hand. “I’d hate to have to search you,” he warned him.

With a deep sigh, Zeb dug in the purse at the front of his kilt and handed the balance reluctantly. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I guess it takes one sly little prick to know another.”

“Are you saying we’re one and the same, sir?” Zeb asked with a flicker of hope. Over the days, his fear of Anders had turned into a weird kind of admiration.

“No,” Anders deadpanned, desirous to put an end to any disadvantageous comparison. He withdrew a few coins from the heap in his palm and gave them to Zeb. “Here is your share.”

Zeb’s greedy and hopeful expression turned into a wince. “Just that?”

“Yes, just that. That’s your punishment for having tried to trick me. Now, off you go!” Anders chased him. “Whoosh, whoosh!”

Zeb took his leave, grumbling.

Anders already resented John’s decision to bring him along to Aklànd. He suspected Zeb would be a major pain in his neck, not to name an even less pleasant body part.

Anders pocketed the rest of the money and rejoiced in the clinking sound of the coins and the way their weight pulled down on his coat. It was a more-than-reasonable gain:  enough to pay the trip to Aklànd, bribe the boatman for his silence and they would still have a good amount of money left for other kinds of purchase.

***

 

On the day of their departure from Rosecliff’s surgery school, the sky was a great stone with dark grey clouds like patches of lichen -- the kind of sky that announced rain but didn’t keep its promises.

Zeb was gone to the city’s port and he had been instructed to wait there for Anders and John. The young healer had found a man who owned a large boat and usually drove people and livestock from Rosecliff to Pine Port. He was ready to take three people and a ‘dog’ to Aklànd discreetly. John and Anders would meet Zeb and the man on the docks just after nightfall, spend the night on the boat and sail with the tide at sunrise.

Anders was in the school’s kitchen, busy packing their belongings in an old grain sack.  They traveled light: food, two blankets, a few spare clothes and their money. The Norse sword was already on his belt. Josie walked into the kitchen and brought him one more bottle of ale and a jar of jam to add to their luggage.  Anders packed them in the bag. He caught Josie by the sleeve to slip a handful of silver coins in her hand.

Surprise made her tongue-tied at first, but then she protested: “I can’t accept. I would have never opened my academy if it hadn’t been from Lord James and John. I already owe the Mitchells a lot.”

“Accept this from a Johnson, then. It’s not much: a pitiful price for having saved my husband’s life,” he told her. She tried to give the money back, but Anders pushed her hand away gently.  “You’re a woman of principle, I admire that, but we’re at war, and principles killed the cat.”

Josie had a small, amused smile. “I always thought it was ‘curiosity’.”

“Was it?” Anders asked with a similar expression.

The smile faded and she looked pensive and serious. “You should keep that money, and use it to help raise an army to crush the Easterners and Duncan, that son of a bitch.”

“If we ever manage to raise such army against the East clans, we’ll need surgeons, that’s why that money belongs to you.”

She quit protesting, thanked him with a nod and she fell into steps with him when Anders went outside. They stopped together on the gravelly garden path to breathe in the atmosphere of that fine evening. The breeze dug up the scent of sea lettuce and wet moss and the sunset shed a dim light on the grass dotted with snowdrops. In the bushes along the stone wall, birds Anders thought forever gone quarreled over some dried berries. Tiolam was digging a hole in an empty flowerbed. She stopped and pricked up an ear when, in a neighboring courtyard, geese quacked and a rooster uttered his last declamation of the day. Anders spotted John taking fresh air at the other end of the garden, seated on a stone bench surrounded by evergreens.

“May I speak freely, sir?” Josie asked Anders.

He threw his cloak on his shoulders and fastened it. “You may,” he encouraged her. John was too far away to hear their conversation.

“I think I misjudged you.”  

He took the avowal without flinching. “You wouldn’t be the first one.”

“I took you for a rude, self-centred and cunning arriviste,” she admitted. There was no guilt in her voice, however.

Anders threw his head back and laughed.  “Well, I’m all of those things and more, but I have John.” His eyes went back to his lover. They exchanged a smile from afar. “I think he’s my best quality. He tones down most of my flaws.”

Josie followed his gaze and stared at John for a little while.  “You might be right.”

“That’s another good thing about me. I’m always right. Though, no one ever listens to me,” Anders regretted.  “Take my youngest brother, as one of many examples. Once he had the strange fancy to start selling ale. I told him to leave it to the common folk and that it would end in a disaster. He didn’t listen to me and winded up getting punched in the face and falling into a water well. There was also that one time he wanted to get married in secret with one of the servants of our castle in Aklànd. I swear, the boy has a thing for servant wenches. I warned him: told him the girl was not for him. Servants are not marriage material for heirs anyway. And I was proved right when the girl showed up at my door the next day, begging me to make her pussycat go ‘meow’.”

“I’m usually good at seizing people, you know,” Josie remarked, “but I doubt I’ll ever figure out whether you are a good or a bad man.”

Anders pursed his lips and hummed, thoughtful, as to signify that this was indeed a mystery. “I tend not to fill my mind with such considerations as good and evil, it gives me a headache, but I’ll tell you if I ever figure it out about myself.”

“Where are you sailing to?” she asked to change subject.

Anders slung the grain sac on his shoulder. “I convinced John to accompany me to Aklànd.”

“You didn’t tell him about Duncan yet, did you?”

Anders shook his head.

She dried her hands on her apron. “He’ll feel betrayed if he learns it from someone else.”

“I’m aware of that possibility, but my husband is an impulsive man, Mistress MacArtney. If he knows now, he’ll want to save his loved ones, get his land back and wring Duncan’s neck, no matter if he has the physical capacity to do so or not. I can’t let him throw himself into the wolf’s mouth while he’s still recovering. I’m waiting for the right moment to tell him.”

“It might never come,” she pointed out.  

Anders’ face showed no expression and he kept silent because John had stood from the bench and walked their way.

“He is probably this country’s only hope. Take good care of him, will you?” Josie whispered before John reached them.

“I will.”

The couple said goodbye to Josie and she wished for the spirit of travels to protect their journey to Aklànd.

Days lengthened at this time of the year, but dusk still came faster than they expected. It was already the night when they took a road that led down to the port and avoided the most populated parts of Rosecliff. John carried their luggage because Anders had to keep a squirming fox close to his chest so she would not try to stray away from them. No light came through the shutters of the silent houses at the periphery of town, as if all the inhabitants were gone or already asleep.

As promised, a boat waited for them at the edge of the docks. The boatman, a small and bulky individual, who had probably never smiled in his whole life and sported several marriage tattoos on both his forearms, greeted them coldly and accepted the money with a snort.

The boat was spacious but it smelt of sheep urine and something rancid which Anders was not quite sure he wanted to know the origin. Zeb was nowhere to be seen. “Where is that dimwit?”

“The wee lad’s say he’d be back before the morn,” the boatman informed them.

“He better be,” Anders groaned, “I paid him in advance.” He put Tiolam down so she would be free to explore the boat. She seemed to have exhausted her curiosity for the day, because she followed her masters instead.

To get some privacy, the spouses walked together to the prow where a lantern was swinging in the wind that blew from inland. Clouds dispersed and the half-moon appeared, like a silver sail in a dark, infinite ocean.

Anders and John turned their heads toward the town at the same time. They had heard the songs and the laughter.  A column of smoke rose above the roofs and they could discern the light of a huge bonfire between the houses. A high mast was carried around the fire, with colorful ribbons and thread of greeneries at its end.

With the war, the travel and the worries, Anders had completely lost track of time.

“I had not realized…” he whispered.

“Me neither,” John echoed.

The people of Rosecliff did not care much for the quarrels of the Greats. They had mouths to feed. They were sad when they could not and grateful to the spirits when they could. And today the cold season ended, so they celebrated, on top of their lungs. They sang in pain, for those who had not gone through the winter, and they sang, in joy, for the children to be born.

At the first beatings of the drums, John put an arm around Anders’ shoulders from behind and he drew him against his front. With the echo of the small bay, it sounded as if there were a hundred drums beating together. It was low at first, then louder and faster, forcing Anders’ heart to pick up the same rhythm. There was no way to fight it. The North Hills’ music was like a strong alcohol, it entered in the blood and captured all the senses. The first notes of the bagpipes tore up the fabric of the night air. The sound went through Anders’ chest and transfixed him. The hair on his arms stood up and a shiver, as old as the world itself, went down his spine like a waterfall from a cliff. Only a true North hiller like Anders would react that way to the music of drums and bagpipes. Herrick and his mind games be damned: the spirits had made him one of them.  The tide might be rising, because Anders could feel the swell making the boat move. No… it was not the boat nor the waves. It was John, swaying his hips ever just slightly and rocking him.

Anders had a secret smile.

They heard cheering and the musicians started a new tune on a fiddle and a flute.

“I can hardly believe it,” Anders said.

“What?” John’s breath brushed over his jawline.

“At the same time last year, I was celebrating in Aklànd. I feel like it happened in another lifetime. By this time of the night, if I remember well, I was dead drunk under a table and I had my face in some girl’s cleavage.”

“And this year, you are on a stinking boat with your invalid husband,” John pointed out.

“As strange as it may sound, I’m fine with it.”

He felt John take a breath in order to speak again, probably to protest, but Anders would have none of it. He turned around and drilled his eyes into the hazel ones. John had already his mouth open, but he shut it right away when he saw his husband’s expression.

“Listen,” Anders said. “I know you’re going to argue that you wish better for me and then you’ll pity me again because political circumstances didn’t allow me to marry someone of my choice, but we are going to sort that out once and for all. I got engaged to you because it was my father’s decision. I wedded you since my brother forced me. I stayed with you for fear of being alone and we had sex because your body appealed to me. But the only reason why I’m here, right now, is because I love you, John Mitchell, and nobody, not even you or me, can do anything about it.”

John’s eyes shone in the night and several expressions succeeded on his face: wonder, awe, happiness, love. Then, something mischievous pinched the corners of his mouth. “I guess it means that you did not only say it because you thought I was going to die.”

Anders arched a brow. “You really want to get punched, do you?”

John laughed at the empty threat. “I’d rather not.”

“Good.”

“So, just because I have to make sure: you truly love me, then.”

Anders had nearly forgotten how much John loved playing with his nerves sometimes. “I do. Can we leave it at that?”

“You know I can’t.”

“I know you won’t.”

 

 

They both sniggered and when their laughter died, the atmosphere had changed.

The back of John’s forefinger went up his throat and gently pushed Anders chin up. Their foreheads touched and they exhaled between parted lips. “I love you too, my fox,” John murmured. His voice was thick with emotion. “All I have and all I am is yours.”

Anders received his lord’s mouth like the grass receives the first warm sun rays of spring. It was the confident kiss of two lovers who knew they belonged together but still desired to seduce one another. The way John’s lips toyed with his held the promise of many unmentionable things and turned Anders’ skin into a flammable matter. His husband’s fine hand was there, on his cheek, to catch him when he opened his eyes.

“Merry springtime, a ghraìd. May this season be merrier than the last.”

“And all the best to you, my lord,” Anders wished him back.

John smiled and circled his waist. “I already have it. It’s here, in my arms.”  

At the winterfest in Brastàl, as they drank mulled wine by the bonfire, Anders had wished for all of his husband’s desires to come true. He remembered that John had pulled a face at that. Did he suspect the winter would be that hard on both of them? Maybe it’s the reason why Anders felt so devastated when John told him he had to leave. They both knew.

Tiolam, jealous of their closeness and eager to get her share of the season greetings, started yelping and trying to bite the back of John’s boots. The brunet let go of his partner and squatted down to pet her and keep her quiet.

Anders went to the other side of the boat and let his gaze lose itself seaward. In the moonlight, the wavelets looked like the scales of a gigantic fish. Lady Astreed, Anders’ mother, had ridden on the back of that fish. She had crossed this ocean that separated her forever from the man she loved. Everybody said she had let herself die from grief and Anders had hated her a long time for having abandoned him. Now he understood how such thing could rip the taste of life from someone.

He would have a different destiny. The time had not come for him or John to join the Mitchell ancestors. There was still much to accomplish before the last voyage to the land of the spirits. The North Hills were in fire and blood, but despite everything, Anders felt optimistic. John and he, together, they were a force of nature that should not be underestimated. Better days were ahead. He was steady on his feet, eager to act and ready to face anything.  “So, what do we do now?” he asked out loud.

John’s steps on the deck were silent, but Anders felt his approach even before the lord put his arm around him again.

“We let the morning come.”

 

 

 

**The end  (of the Winter)**

 

** **

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone of you who read the story, and especially to those who took the time to leave me comments. You've been a great part in my motivation to continue nuturing that little monster of a story. 
> 
> I've been asked if I would continue with the Spring part. The answer is : I want to, I'd like to, I've already panned to, but I have no idea when real life, health problems or lack of time can get in the way. I want to write it, I just don't want to make promises I'm not 100% sure I can keep. If/when I start to write the next season, I hope I'm still going to have some amazing readers like you to accompany me on my journey in the North Hills.
> 
> If you wish to be notified whenever I add something to the story, I suggest that you suscribe or put a bookmark on the series : Seasons in the North Hills.


	18. Chapter 18

This is not a chapter. This is just a heads up for those of you who'd want to read more of this story. 

There is now a new part to this series that you can find here: 

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10866234/chapters/24136575

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies. :) 
> 
> A music mix exists for this story. You can find it here: http://8tracks.com/oursesolitaire/winter-in-the-north-hills


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